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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764535">Interlude</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel'>sarahbeniel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Witcher (TV), Thor (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Crossover, Darcy Lewis &amp; Jaskier Friendship, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, F/M, Minor Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Oral Sex, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romantic Gestures, Skinny Dipping, Threats of Violence, Threats of assault, WinterShock - Freeform, Witchershock - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:27:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>67,001</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Darcy are having trouble communicating. When Bucky suggests they take a break, she assumes it's over.  But sometimes a break is just what the doctor ordered...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Darcy Lewis, James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Ladies of Marvel Bingo 2019</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have no explanation.  Other than a need to slake a Witcher thirst, and my undying love for Bucky Barnes, happening concurrently.</p><p>This work fulfills two squares on my Ladies of Marvel Bingo card:  L1 (Skinny Dipping) and D4 (Romantic Gestures).</p><p> </p><p> </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The blow job was a mistake.

</p><p>She’d meant it to be a treat: a nice way to welcome him back. 

</p><p>She’d had a whole week to regret the way they’d left it: both of them tense and crabby and bickering.  A week to think about what needed to change, if this was gonna keep going: this tenuous thing she was building with Bucky.

</p><p>She heard the beep of the electronic lock as he let himself in, and when he stepped into the kitchen, where she was waiting for him, she was surprised: his pretty, dark hair was still damp from a shower, and she could smell, even from a few feet away, that he was fresh and clean.  Apparently, he’d stopped at his place first, to clean up and change clothes.

</p><p>And maybe it was her eagerness to see him again— to get going on that treat— but she stupidly missed the significance of that: simply thought, ‘<em>well, that’s convenient</em>,’ pleased that she wasn’t going to be blowing him through an unknown number of days’ worth of mission-sweat and crotch-stank.  Had already assumed she would be, because asking him to shower first wouldn’t have been as impactful as simply shoving him backwards into the kitchen counter as soon as he put his bag down.

</p><p>“What’re you—”

</p><p>She could hear him sigh— almost annoyed— as she dropped to her knees in front of him, but he didn’t try to stop her when she pulled down his zipper and opened his fly.  

</p><p>At any other time, that lack of appreciation would have pissed her off. But he wasn’t telling her ‘<em>no</em>,’ so she kept going.  Was determined to make him feel good: to pull all of that tension out of him, before they could start arguing right off the bat…

</p><p>She pulled him out, and there was no hint of interest there yet, so she stroked him a little, trying to get him started…

</p><p>She looked up at him once, but his eyes were already shut, his lips parted, hands braced on the edge of the countertop behind him— and she took him into her mouth and wet him all over, shutting her own eyes as she felt him finally begin to respond… thickening, lengthening under the swirls of her hot tongue…

</p><p>She was just starting to really enjoy herself— one hand wrapped around his shaft, pulling up on it gently as she worked the tip of her tongue into his foreskin, skimming around the glans… the other on his belly, her thumb stroking the dark line of hair that trailed down from his navel— when he moved a hand to her shoulder.  

</p><p>He didn’t push her away, but there was something off in his voice: “Sweetheart—”

</p><p>She paused, pulling off of him just long enough to answer: “Just shut up and let me do this, okay?”

</p><p>She should have stopped.  But she didn’t: the frustration made her press on, like a kind of defiance— not of him, but of the reality of the situation— the mess of where things stood between them.  All the unknowns, their failure to communicate… 

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’d been so good at first.  The first few weeks together, especially— like a catharsis, after a long and aching build-up of circling each other quietly for months, stalking and being stalked… the interiors of the Tower like their game-board, as they’d toyed with each other…

</p><p>When he’d finally captured her— bringing the unspoken tension to a head, making his move when he caught her alone in the break room— she’d been high with it: the anticipation… sure he was going to kiss her, her body all lightning and flame as he’d trapped her against a wall, his metal arm bracketing her as he braced himself there, caging her…

</p><p>And then he’d spoken, and his words had been so anticlimactic and funny:

</p><p>“<em>I heard you like bagels</em>.”

</p><p>They’d stared each other down for a few seconds after that, his face so close that she could feel the heat of it, smell the coffee on his breath… and he could have done it: could have kissed her, even after that, and it would have been sweet, and hot.  But he didn’t— he straightened up, smirking... made plans to take her out…

</p><p>And then he’d swaggered away, leaving her wanting, the shitty little smile on his face telling her he knew exactly what he was doing…

</p><p>So that’d been their funny little first date: an outing to a hole-in-the-wall bagel shop in Midtown, and that’s where he finally kissed her— unplanned, unscripted, with pigeons and bums and garbage all around.

</p><p>She’d been waiting outside, away from the press of people within, holding a paper bag filled with an extra dozen bagels to go, while he’d settled the bill— he’d insisted— and when he’d come out, she’d looked up, and they both stood there, stupidly, staring at each other, like a replay of those weighted seconds by the wall, the day before.  

</p><p>He reached up with his flesh hand— wiped a little bit of cream cheese off her upper lip— and then he’d held onto her chin… leaned down and kissed her so gently that she’d practically melted, right there on the sidewalk…

</p><p>It’d unleashed something, that kiss; and though they’d walked casually back to the Tower, playing it cool— like it was no big deal— something inside was already sprinting…

</p><p>They’d barely shut the door to her apartment before they released it, ripping each other’s clothes off, and it was even better than her dreams, Bucky’s body coming together with hers like some kind of goddamned artwork, neither one of them being shy or quiet about it…

</p><p>She’d wanted to snuggle him afterwards, but when he got up right away— pulled on his underpants, grinned down at her all sweaty and gorgeous and said, “Got anything to eat?” she’d stuffed down her disappointment, threw on a robe, and treated him like any other overgrown boy: fed him several large bowls of cereal in the kitchen, as she sat across from him with a goofy smile on her face, feeling happy.  

</p><p>And when he’d left shortly after, telling her he couldn’t stay, she’d thought maybe that was it: he’d gotten what he’d wanted, got it out of his system.  And as much as it’d been a fantastic fuck— not something she was ever going to regret— something had deflated inside her.  

</p><p>She wasn’t afraid to admit it: she’d wanted more.  Had thought that was where they’d been headed, all this time: to some kind of relationship.  Maybe she’d misunderstood.

</p><p>But then again, maybe she hadn’t.  He showed up the next day in the break room, this time full of other people— came right up to her and gave her a kiss, right in front of everyone— and dazzled her with one of his fantastic smiles.  

</p><p>“Hey, beautiful,” he’d said.  “You free for lunch?”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was a little confusing, the path it took.  She couldn’t figure him out.  Maybe it was just his nature:  he was wound up so tight— no good at sitting still, hanging out.  No good at just <em>being</em>.   

</p><p>He’d come to her place for a frenzied afternoon fuck, and then cut and run.  Even if it was late at night, nowhere else he needed to be, he wouldn’t stay.  She’d be offended, if not for the way he’d also show up randomly at her desk.  Treat her real nice.  Take her out, with no expectation of getting her back to the sack.  Make her think he wanted more than just her body…

</p><p>People had been a little surprised by them— didn’t see them as a likely couple— but somehow they worked.  They had fun together.  Made each other smile.  And the sex was amazing. 

</p><p>She knew he had issues— was maybe trying to protect her from that side of him. 

</p><p>She’d been trying to give him the space to open up to her, in his own time.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A few months in, he made a mistake— and she finally saw what he’d been avoiding.  What he’d been keeping from her.

</p><p>He’d come to her late, after a long day in the field, and he’d been so wiped out, that he’d accidentally fallen asleep in her bed.  She’d seen it as a good thing: like they’d finally crossed some milepost, and she’d silently celebrated as she’d watched his peaceful, sleeping face, before she followed him down into a warm, happy dream, an arm and a leg slung possessively across his body…

</p><p>And then he’d woken them both up, suddenly, with a shout that cut through the darkness, in the quiet fear of the night…

</p><p>It was some kind of flashback; had to be: he was up, out of the bed: pacing around, talking nonsense— agitated… and then he dropped to his knees on the carpet, was pawing through his dirty clothes on the floor…

</p><p>She fumbled for the light, confused— not yet frightened; thinking she could snap him out of it, talk to him…  and then he had a knife in his hand— she could see the glint of the blade as he stood up again— and everything shifted…

</p><p>He was looking at her with murder in his eyes…

</p><p>He didn’t know her.

</p><p>She realized, all at once: <em> Oh.  This: this is why</em>…

</p><p>She rolled out of the bed, landing on the floor, reaching for the taser gun she kept under the bed-frame, and even though he wasn’t coming at her yet, she was up again and zapping him, instinctively, before she could think twice, because in that moment he was no longer Bucky, her lover.

</p><p>He was a stranger.  A dangerous man.  A big, powerful, possibly angry man, who was weighing whether or not to hurt her…

</p><p>She got him right in the middle of his bare, sweaty chest, and he grimaced and stepped backward as the probes stuck into his skin, but he wasn’t falling down, like a normal target— and then he was <em>growling</em>, ripping the probes out…

</p><p>She quickly released the cartridge, grabbed her phone off the bedside table, and ran…

</p><p>The bathroom was the closest place to barricade herself, and she slammed the door and locked it, slumping down to the floor in her underpants and sleep-shirt.  Sat there, gripping the taser-gun with both hands, shaking all over as she listened for any sound of him… loaded the backup cartridge, for all the good it would do… hoped he wouldn’t break down the door to get at her— to punish her for trying to hurt him.

</p><p>After a couple more minutes— no sign of him, no pounding on the door— she let go of the taser with one hand; picked up her phone and called Steve.  Gave him the code to get into her room, and then waited, frightened both for herself and for Bucky.  She could still hear him, moving around in the bedroom.  Could hear drawers opening and sliding shut, and then the closet…

</p><p>It took less than five minutes for Steve to get there— she heard him letting himself into the apartment, the pound of his footsteps as he came closer, reaching the bathroom door. Could see the shadow of his feet on the other side.  He knocked quietly. 

</p><p>“Darcy? You okay?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, in a tiny, scared voice.  “I tased him…”

</p><p>“It’s okay,” he said.  “Don’t worry.  I got him.”

</p><p>She could hear their muffled, low voices, coming from the bedroom, and before long, she could hear Steve coming back.  

</p><p>“Darcy?  You sure you’re okay?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, and she was almost holding her breath— trying not to cry.

</p><p>“We’re going.  I’ll, uh… I’ll call you later, okay?”

</p><p>“Okay,” she said, trying to sound steady. 

</p><p>She could tell Bucky was there too, on the other side of the door, but he didn’t say a word.  She heard them go to the front door. Leave.  Could hear the double beep as the electronic lock re-engaged.

</p><p>She finally stood up and unlocked the bathroom door— hazarded a few cautious steps outside, on still-shaky legs, verifying that the apartment was quiet and empty— and then returned to the bedroom.  Stared at the rumpled-up sheets.  

</p><p>His pants were gone, but his shirt was there, next to the bed; he hadn’t bothered to take it.  She could see the taser cartridge lying discarded on the floor nearby, with its long, spirally lead-wires.  There was no sign of the knife.

</p><p>Maybe she should have been angry— upset that he hadn’t warned her, better prepared her for something like this— but she wasn’t.  

</p><p>She was just sad.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She’d thought that’d be the end of them— that he’d avoid her, and whatever they’d had would recede into the past like a vapor… an imagined dream.

</p><p>He surprised her, coming by to see her the very next day— knocked gently on her apartment door.  Came in, head down, when she opened up.  He was cagey, nervous.  

</p><p>“M’sorry,” he said, pacing the floor in front of the coffee table. “Never shoulda… I can’t…”  He stopped his pacing— shut his eyes, like he was in pain…

</p><p>“Tell me what to do,” she said. 

</p><p>He was keeping his distance: standing several feet away from her as she sat on her couch.  Finally she stood— chose to be the one to subtract the space between them, with just a few short steps.  Hesitated for just a second, and then wrapped her arms around him.  

</p><p>“Tell me what to do,” she said again, her voice hushed as she pressed her face into his warm chest.

</p><p>“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he said, his own voice quiet.  “I guess.”  

</p><p>They both laughed a little— the tension broken— but it wasn’t a real solution: not even close.  And even though she felt him sag a little— could feel the relief there, in his body, as she held him— something changed after that.  

</p><p>He closed some part of himself off to her.  Was even more guarded.  Like he was constantly bracing himself for the inevitable sit-down— the Talk.  The one where she said she still wanted to be friends, but…

</p><p>And she did want to have a sit-down.  Not one where she put on the brakes, but one where they could talk openly about it.  About the problems he had to deal with.  Whether there was anything she could do.  If there was some way they could be closer, without it being a risk…

</p><p>She’d been working up to it: wanted him to know that she wasn’t gonna run away, now that they’d gotten into the nitty-gritty of things.  Now that she was seeing beneath the layers, seeing how much work it was to be <em>him</em>… or to be with him.  She didn’t want to minimize it.

</p><p>But she wasn’t any good at that: expressing herself soberly, carefully, with well-chosen words— and neither was he.  So, like the boneheads they both were, they avoided it.  

</p><p>They let the tension grow, until it was a tangible flavor— coloring all of their time together.  The strain began to show.  

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>And now here she was, on her knees in the kitchen of her apartment, trying to convince him— convince them both— that it was all going to be okay. Hoping he’d get the core message: that she wasn’t going anywhere.  That she wanted to keep trying this.  She’d just wanted to sweeten the arena, before they got to the harder part: actually talking about it.

</p><p>He’d stopped trying to speak; had obeyed her command to shut up— and now his breath was quickening, getting louder, his flesh hand still resting on her shoulder, gripping it as she worked him harder… 

</p><p>She was using everything she’d learned about his body, what he liked— showing him how much she’d paid attention. That she was a good study.  

</p><p>She could be a good study about other things, too.  If he’d let her.

</p><p>It didn’t take long, his breathing getting ragged, his hand clenching harder, and when it became a little desperate, and she could feel he was close, he suddenly tried to pull away…

</p><p>It surprised her: he was usually happy to come in her mouth, if she was game for it…

</p><p>She chased him, insistent: her hand holding him there, her lips stretched around him, never breaking the suction, and he gave in, his fingers curling even tighter as he let go, his hips shaking a little as he spilled into her mouth with a groan…

</p><p>She couldn’t help smiling as she cleaned him gently with her tongue, and then released him… knew she’d done a superlative job.  She sat back on her heels, licking her lips…

</p><p>“Fuck,” he said, emphatically, and that one word changed everything: the tone of it making her look up, her smile dropping, because it wasn’t a happy sound—  not a ‘<em>goddamn that was good</em>,’  kind of curse…

</p><p>It sounded more like regret.  Like he’d made a mistake.

</p><p>He turned around, facing the cabinets as he got himself together— tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up, and then he stayed there: faced away… silent.

</p><p>She could see his back moving, as he tried to measure his breathing.

</p><p>“Hey,” she said, and she pushed herself up off the floor.  Stepped closer, her hand coming up— wanting to touch him, comfort him— but she stopped short, her palm just hovering there, a couple inches away…  “Hey, are you okay?”

</p><p>No answer.

</p><p>“What’s going on?” she said, and her stomach was souring, as the fear leaked in.  

</p><p>She was getting mad, too, because obviously there <em>was</em> something wrong, but he’d let her go ahead and blow him anyway, like she was some kind of fool: like <em>she’d</em> needed it, not him, and he’d thrown her a bone…

</p><p>“Did something happen?” she said, her voice a little sharper.  “Talk to me.”

</p><p>He sighed again and turned, without looking down at her, and she stepped back, giving him room.  He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes somewhere over her shoulder as he spoke.  “Why don’t we…  I gotta sit down.”

</p><p>He walked past her to get out of the kitchen, like it was a bad scene… headed to the living-room, and now the adrenaline was hitting her…

</p><p>“What’s going on?” she said again, as she followed, trying not to let the fear get the better of her, and she couldn’t believe she’d had his cock in her mouth just minutes before, because he seemed so far away…

</p><p>“Bucky…”

</p><p>He sat down on the far end of the couch, his head bowed as he rested his forearms on his thighs.

</p><p>“You’re scaring me,” she said, as she sat down on the opposite side, leaving a big space open between them.  

</p><p>And then she said, nervously, not really meaning it— like a bad joke, to cut the tension:  “What, are you breaking up with me or something?”

</p><p>He didn’t answer, and it was like a punch to the gut…

</p><p>“Oh my God, you are…”

</p><p>“I’m not—”

</p><p>“Jesus Christ, I just— and the whole time— what, you were thinking about how you were gonna let me down easy?”

</p><p>“M’sorry,” he said, and he was still staring at the floor, unable to look at her.  “I tried to— maybe I thought…”

</p><p>And then he stood up, started pacing.  “Fuck, I don’t know what I thought.  I didn’t wanna push you away, or— I shouldn’t have—”

</p><p>She was stunned silent for a minute, her brain trying to catch up.  It wasn’t real.  

</p><p>“I’m not—” he started to say, and he stopped pacing, his metal hand on his hip as the flesh one rubbed tiredly at his forehead.  “I don’t wanna… we’re not breaking up.  Least, that’s not what I want.  But maybe… I mean, maybe we oughta take a break.”
  
</p><p>“A break,” she said, repeating the word like it was scum.

</p><p>“Yeah.”

</p><p>“Not a breakup.”

</p><p>“I don’t—”

</p><p>“I mean, what’s the difference?” she said, letting the anger speak, and then she stood up too, needing to move so that she wouldn’t just let the couch swallow her up.  “What—<em>God</em>…”

</p><p>She didn’t want to cry.  She felt like the biggest idiot on the planet.  She put a hand over her eyes as she turned away, trying to hide…

</p><p>“You okay?” he asked.

</p><p>She took a minute, trying to calm herself enough to speak with some kind of dignity.  “I just… you know… I could fill a whole fucking notebook with all the things I don’t like about us, but up until now?  You’ve never actually made me feel humiliated.  But I am now.  I’m fucking humiliated.”

</p><p>“M’sorry, Dee. I—”

</p><p>She turned then, her hand dropping as she snapped at him.  “You don’t have to be nice about this, you know. It’s not gonna make me feel better.”

</p><p>“I didn’t want to hurt you.  This is… it’s about me, not you.”

</p><p>“Oh, great,” she said.  “The good old ‘<em>it’s me, not you</em>’.  That makes it so much better.”

</p><p>He sighed, looking anywhere in the room but at her.  “I’ll… I think I should go.  I’m gonna go now.”  He waited a few beats.  “You gonna be okay?”

</p><p>“Sure,” she said, bitterly, because it was a stupid question.  “I’ll be just peachy.”

</p><p>“I don’t… I don’t want this to be over,” he said.  “I just—”

</p><p>“Just go, okay?” she said.  “Just get out of here.”

</p><p>She went to her bedroom and shut the door, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding herself completely taut, waiting until she heard the front door open and shut, and only then did she crumble over in her bed, bury her face in her pillow, and let herself cry.

</p><p>She could still taste him in her mouth.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“You should go with us,” said Jane, watching Darcy mope at her desk.  

</p><p>It’d been four days since Bucky had left her apartment, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him since.  In spite of his claim that he didn’t want it to be ‘over’, it sure was feeling like it, and she wasn’t about to be the one to crawl to him, begging…

</p><p>“Why,” she said, her voice flat.  

</p><p>“It’s fun there,” said Jane.  “You’d like it.”

</p><p>Jane and Thor had an appointment with Dr. Stephen Strange, at the Sanctum Santorum, later that afternoon.  Darcy had never been there.  Normally, she’d have been keen to go, but right now, she didn’t feel like doing anything.

</p><p>She’d gone through a lot of phases in the past four days: from humiliation, to sadness, to anger, to regret…

</p><p>At the moment she was feeling angry again, but this time it was directed toward herself.  Angry that she’d thought of him as some kind of regular guy.  That her expectations of him hadn’t taken into account the kinds of things he must have to grapple with on a daily basis.  The fears and dangers he had to navigate.  The care he’d taken to protect her from it…

</p><p>Of course, he could have <em>told</em> her.  Could have talked to her about it.  But maybe that was an unrealistic expectation as well.  

</p><p>Darcy liked to fix things.  Maybe, somehow, without even meaning to, she’d made him feel like he was just another project: something to be solved.  Maybe she’d pushed him into this— into taking a step back.  

</p><p>She’d realized, in the past four days of moping, that she loved him.

</p><p>“I gotta do something,” she said, as she rose from her desk and swept a hand through her unkempt hair.

</p><p>“Oh,” said Jane.  “Okay.  Well, let me know about the thing, okay?  We’re gonna leave around two…”

</p><p>Darcy didn’t even bother answering— she was already out the door.  Blindly riding the momentum.  Needing to track him down.  To tell him.

</p><p>She didn’t call or text him: didn’t want to give him a chance to evade her.

</p><p>She tried his apartment first.  No answer.  

</p><p>Then the gym.  Nope.  But Steve was there, and she talked to him for a few minutes.
“He, uh… he had a rough night,” said Steve, as he mopped his sweaty face on a gym towel.

</p><p>“Oh,” she said, frowning.  She wondered just how often he had that kind of night.  Maybe it was most nights.  She felt terrible that she didn’t even know.  

</p><p>“He just went down to the showers,” he said. 

</p><p>“Okay,” she said.  “Thanks.”

</p><p>She could feel the need building— the instinct to run to him, wrap her arms around him.  Hold him.  Tell him she was sorry, for whatever she’d contributed to the bad feeling that’d grown between them.  Tell him that she loved him. 

</p><p>She pushed through the back doors of the Tower’s gymnasium and down the short hallway to the locker rooms, and then she stopped short:  she could hear voices.  And then a laugh.  It was him.  And someone else: a woman.

</p><p>Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to start walking again, and she rounded the corner, and saw them there:  Bucky, and the Black Widow.  Natasha Romanov. 
</p><p>He was all sweaty— still in his tank-top and sweatpants; hadn’t made it to the showers yet— while she had obviously just finished: she was standing there in a towel, her hair dripping.  They were smiling at each other…

</p><p>“This your idea of a break?”  she said sharply, her voice sounding stupid and loud, and they both turned, their smiles dropping as they took her in, there at the end of the hall.

</p><p>“I get it now,” she said, nodding, fighting back the tears.  “Well.  Go right ahead,” she said.  “Enjoy your break.  Knock yourself out.”

</p><p>“Darcy, wait,” she heard him say, as she whirled around to flee. 

</p><p>“Fuck you, Barnes,” she said as she walked away.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bucky followed her as far as the bend in the hallway— watched her disappear through the gym doors.

</p><p>“Aw, Christ,” he said, his gut swirling sour with the knowledge that Darcy had entirely the wrong idea. He was considering going after her— trying to explain…

</p><p>“Let her go,” said Natasha, who’d come up behind him, stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.  “Let her cool down.”

</p><p>“That ain’t really her forté,” he said ruefully, rubbing his forehead.  “Coolin’ down.”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said with a knowing smirk.  “Bet you really hate that about her.”

</p><p>He shook his head, but he was smiling, sadly. 

</p><p>“You’re a real idiot, you know that?” she added.

</p><p>“Yeah,” he said.  “I’m aware.  Don’t know what she sees in me.”

</p><p>Romanov sighed too, rolling her eyes as she left him there, in the hallway.  “That’s why you’re an idiot.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jane was still at her desk when Darcy stomped back into the lab.  

</p><p>“You still got room for one more?” she said, before Jane could say a word. Her eyes were brimming with fresh tears, and she wiped them angrily away.  “Because I could really do with a distraction right now…”

</p><p>“Yeah,” said Jane, standing up, as she took in the state of her friend.  “Of course.   Oh, sweetie… what happened…”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jane hadn’t exaggerated:  the Sanctum Santorum was all kinds of amazing. Darcy was glad she’d come along; it was serving as the perfect distraction from her turbulent emotions— her simmering anger at the scene she’d been replaying over and over in her head: the two of them together… Bucky and Natasha.  

</p><p>Smiling… laughing… not a care in the world.  Both of them gorgeous, like some kind of perfect conjuration of a power couple…

</p><p>She remembered Natasha’s dripping-wet hair, and she wondered, suddenly, if that was why he’d showered before coming to her apartment that day: if maybe he’d stopped at Natasha’s first…

</p><p>She shoved the thought away as she entered the library, alone.  She was wandering around by herself, up there on the third floor of the weird, labyrinthine townhouse.  They’d been there for an hour already, and though at first she’d been dazzled by Dr. Strange— content to sit off to the side and listen as he discussed something technical with Jane— she’d eventually gotten bored, restless.  Like a little kid who’d been taken along on an errand, who’d reached her limit of sitting still.

</p><p>Thor had already downed three giant mugfuls of beer— his own coping mechanism— and had vanished to take a piss; after only a few minutes of his absence, Darcy made her own excuses. Got up and left the sitting room, promising not to touch anything.

</p><p>The library was like some secret wing of the Met, the eclectic collection lit largely by the natural sunlight shining through a massive, circular skylight set into a sloped wall at the top of the stairs.  Individual items were illuminated by the additional glow of expensive-looking fixtures set flush into the ornately-carved ceilings.  

</p><p>There were huge, man-sized, glass-encased displays of large artifacts, and she examined those first, before moving onto the many tables laid with smaller items— resisting the urge to reach out and touch.

</p><p>Finally, she moved to slowly walk the perimeter of the room, where the walls were lined with shelves of ancient tomes, flanked by decorative objects made of ceramic and jade and bone, inlaid with unidentifiable metals and precious gems.

</p><p>She was browsing the spines of one long sequence of books, her head tilted at an angle— trying to find something in English— when an odd little item caught her eye.  It was small clay vessel, terra-cotta in color, no larger than a bud vase— very plain, compared to the other items on the shelves.  It was an amphora, with handles on opposite sides of a pear-shaped body that tapered to a narrow neck.  The circular opening was unstoppered.  

</p><p>The dusty, clay-colored material had an odd, scattering glow to it— no doubt magical in nature— almost like it was being lit from inside, by a swirl of fireflies.  She couldn’t explain why, but she felt as though it were speaking to her… like her head was filling with a thickness… a weird and witchy whispering…

</p><p>Before she could talk herself out of it, she was picking it up, turning it over in her hands.  Peered inside, to see what was lighting it up.  It was empty.

</p><p>The clay began to heat up…

</p><p>She could hear it, like an echo, too late— Jane’s stern admonition: <em>don’t touch anything</em>…

</p><p>Before she could put the vessel back on the shelf, there was a sudden yank— like an invisible force had reached into her body, grasped her by the spine, and pulled her straight upward, out of the building, out of reality—  and then she was nowhere, her body weightless: tumbling through an endless and suffocating dark.

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, she’s missing?”

</p><p>Bucky was halfway through the line in the upper-level cafeteria, his phone held to his ear as he spoke.  He stepped out of the line abruptly, leaving his tray behind, all of his food still on it, much to the annoyance of the people behind him, who had to lift their own trays to get past his as they slid their way down…

</p><p>He was walking as he spoke, wanting to get out of the noisy room so that he could hear Foster better.  Her voice was high-pitched, rapid, intense— coming at him through the phone like a verbal assault…

</p><p>“I don’t know,” she was shrieking.  “They kicked us out without answering any of our questions, and we’ve got nothing to go on— nothing!  And now I’m just standing here on the sidewalk, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m freaking out…”

</p><p>“Slow down,” said Bucky, though his own heart was pounding now, because from what he could gather so far, Darcy was missing— vanished without a trace— and he was trying to tamp down his own blooming panic.  

</p><p>He’d made it through the cafeteria doors, and was standing in the hallway outside, which was also crowded with people coming and going, but far quieter.  He turned toward the wall as he spoke.  “What’d the wizard tell you?  Where’s Thor?”

</p><p>“Thor left,” she said.  “He thought maybe Heimdall…”

</p><p>“And Strange?”

</p><p>“He gave us this load of crap about how she probably just wandered off… like, got bored and left.  Left the building by herself.  As if she’d do that!”

</p><p>“Not without tellin’ you, at least,” Bucky agreed.

</p><p>“Yeah.”

</p><p>“They gotta have cameras, or—”

</p><p>“That’s what I said,” said Foster, her voice still raised.  Bucky could picture her, there on the sidewalk, yelling into her phone, pedestrians giving her a wide berth…

</p><p>“They practically rolled their eyes at me,” she continued.  “Like cameras were beneath them or something.  He said it was possible— <em>possible</em>— that she touched something she shouldn’t have.  He said it like… like if that’s what happened, then it was her own fault.  Not his problem.”

</p><p>“Jesus,” said Bucky, feeling the anger rising up.

</p><p>“I mean… do you think we should call the police?” she said.

</p><p>“You really think that’d do any good?” 

</p><p>He could hear Foster let out a breath.  “No,” she said.  “But we have to do <em>something</em>, right?  I can’t just stand here and—”

</p><p>“You think if Steve and I came down there…”

</p><p>“I mean,” she said, hesitating, catching his meaning…  “The guy’s not even intimidated by Thor, so…”

</p><p>“Right,” he said.  And then, “You think she might have left?”

</p><p>“I don’t think so? She left her backpack,” said Foster, and then she hesitated again.  “I mean, maybe.  She’s been pretty upset.  Not herself.  Because of… you know.”

</p><p>“Fuck,” said Bucky, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.  “God, I’m sorry; this whole thing has gone off the rails, and I—”

</p><p>“Bucky, don’t,” said Foster.  “Let’s just… <em>God</em>, I’m so frustrated.  We just need to find her.  I don’t even know what we can <em>do</em>…”

</p><p>“Strange didn’t give you any other idea what—”

</p><p>“I mean, when he said the thing about her maybe possibly touching something, I was like, well, can’t you check?  And he said they’d have to do a full inventory of the holdings, which would take days, and they have more pressing concerns right—”

</p><p>“More <em>pressing</em>,” repeated Bucky, his voice dangerous. 

</p><p>“Yeah,” said Foster, sounding just as outraged as he felt.  “Exactly.  I mean, the guy’s kind of a dick that way… and I’ve learned the hard way that if you push back, it just gets worse…”

</p><p>“What’s the address there?” said Bucky, and he was fumbling in his pocket, looking for something to write on— a receipt, a scrap, anything.  He stopped a lady— some Stark employee— walking down the hallway: “Gotta pen?” he whispered to her, holding his mouth away from the phone.

</p><p>“You can’t,” said Foster, “They won’t let you in; they—”

</p><p>“Not gonna try,” he said, as he nodded his thanks to the lady as he accepted the ballpoint pen she held out to him. He took the cap off with his teeth, and then pressed the scrap of paper against the wall so that he could write on it.  

</p><p>“Just gonna walk around the neighborhood,” he said. “Talk to people… see if any of the places around there have street-facing cameras… maybe we can at least rule out whether she left the building through the front doors…”

</p><p>“Right,” said Foster, and she let out a breath. “Okay.  Yeah.  That’s good.”  

</p><p>Bucky scribbled out the address she gave him, told her he’d be there shortly, and hung up.  The lady he’d borrowed the pen from had gone, so he just shoved it into his pocket and started heading for the elevators as he pulled up Darcy’s number and clicked to call it.  As expected, it went to voice mail, but he left a message telling her to call or text him right away.  He followed that up with a text to her as well, and then called Steve.

</p><p>“What’s up,” said his friend, right away, as soon as he picked up.  Bucky didn’t make a lot of phone calls.

</p><p>“Need you to cover for me, for the rest of the day,” said Bucky.  “Maybe longer.”

</p><p>“What’s goin’ on?” said Steve.

</p><p>“It’s Darcy,” said Bucky, his voice grim.  “She’s missing.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It felt like her guts were turning inside out.  

</p><p>Like all of her insides were being unraveled, squished, and then pushed back in.  She was panicking— feeling like she couldn’t breathe, everything still pitch-black— and then there was a desperate pulling, like a magnet drawing her down, and with a mighty thump she felt herself land on solid ground.

</p><p>All of her senses rushed back in as she opened her eyes…

</p><p>She was in the middle of a deeply shaded forest, trees towering above her, thick all around, the rich, loamy smell of wet leaves and moss and soil filling her nose…  

</p><p>It was quiet, and she stood up, feeling weak and shaky and paranoid.  She still held the tiny clay amphora gripped in her hand, and she looked at it.  It appeared to be undamaged, but the strange, glowy, firefly effect was gone: whatever had been powering its magic seemed to have died down. She tried to replicate the motions she’d made before— tried to get it to warm up from her touch, come alive again— but the vessel remained cold, lifeless.  Whatever’d happened, it’d apparently been a one-way ticket.

</p><p>“Fuck,” she said, under her breath, and looked around, feeling vulnerable.  Being in the woods alone was not her idea of a good time, even in less unusual circumstances; it called to mind too many horror movies and True Crime books that’d given her nightmares in her teens.  

</p><p>She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, clicked it on— tried to see if she could bring up a map.  

</p><p>No Service. 

</p><p>“Perfect,” she muttered, and looked around nervously again.  

</p><p>She needed to move.  Pick a direction, and start walking.  She looked at her phone again— checked her battery: it was at eighty-nine percent.  That was one good thing, at least, but she knew she should conserve it.  Before she clicked it off, though, she opened up the camera app and took a few pictures of her surroundings, to keep a record of the spot where she’d landed, just in case she ended up walking in circles. 

</p><p>She clicked the phone off, looked around for a sharp rock, and then did her best to carve an obvious “X” into one of the tree-trunks with it.  She dropped the rock back to the ground, dusted off her hand, and then picked a direction at random and set off walking.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was cool, and quiet— peaceful.  If she hadn’t felt so vulnerable, it would have been nice… she hadn’t been out of the city in a long time.  She was doing her best to avoid the thoughts that expressed the obvious— she had no food, no water, no map, no weapons: she was fucked. 

</p><p>After maybe ten minutes of steady walking, she stopped— kept very still.  She could swear there was something…  a sound…

</p><p>She held her breath and listened…

</p><p>There was someone singing— a man— somewhere in the distance, in the dense cover of the wood…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jaskier was leaning against a tree, one leg bent, the other stretched out, his lute in his lap.  He was strumming it idly— a random, tentative chord here and there— as he fished around for words with a gentle, lilting tenor.  

</p><p>He knew Geralt could hear him— the man was crouching nearby, using the rest-stop to gather any useful reagents that could be found near the water.  But, though the bard wove a lovely, erotic scene of seduction with his words, the Witcher, as was typical, gave him no response— no feedback whatsoever— on his work-in-progress. 

</p><p>Jaskier pressed on, composing alone, finding the rhyme as he sang…

</p><p>“<em>With a hitch of her layers of skirts / shone the treasure that finally got him / when on bended knee she revealed / a magnificent, succulent bottom</em>…”

</p><p>Yes, that’d do nicely.  He moved onto waxing poetic about the lady-in-question’s thighs, knowing his eventual audience would appreciate the details.  There were many useful words to pair with thighs, like <em>sighs, lies, rise, wise</em>… he was working it out, when his fingers stilled on the lute-strings and he sat up a little, eyebrows furrowing as he peered through the distant trees.

</p><p>“Geralt…”

</p><p>No answer.  Not unexpected, but…

</p><p>He tried again, pitching his voice a little louder: “Geralt, there’s a girl.”

</p><p>“Hmm?”

</p><p>“A girl,” he said again, and he leaned his body sideways a bit, trying to get a better look.  “A girl in the woods.”

</p><p>That got a reaction, finally, as he knew it would.  The other man pushed up from his crouch by the stream, his collection forgotten, and joined Jaskier by the tree, peering in the direction that the bard indicated with pointed finger.

</p><p>“That isn’t her,” said the Witcher, in his low, husky voice, after a moment.  Geralt had, in a rare moment of confessional mood, shared with Jaskier the words uttered to him by Renfri as she'd died in his arms: those of his destiny, tied to the ‘girl in the woods’…

</p><p>“But what if she is?” whispered Jaskier.  They could both see her: definitely female, there in the distance, now trying to hide herself behind a tree.
 
</p><p>“She isn’t,” said Geralt.  He didn’t know how he knew this, but he knew.  

</p><p>“But what if she is?”

</p><p>“She isn’t.”

</p><p>“But what if—”

</p><p>They ceased their ridiculous back-and-forth when the girl stepped into view again.  She held something up, in front of her face— a small, thin, rectangular object— and then lowered it again, tapped on it for a few seconds, and then slipped it into her pocket and began to walk purposefully toward them.  

</p><p>Jaskier stood up, still holding his lute, using his other hand to brush the dirt and leaves off the soft, pale blue fabric of his trousers, while Geralt stood still like a statue.  Though the woman was small— she’d barely come up to his shoulder— and apparently unarmed, he watched her approach with the silent strength and caution that colored all of his encounters with unknown forces.  

</p><p>As she came closer, they could see that she was dressed oddly— her manner of attire completely unfamiliar.  She wore a simple, thin, short-sleeved shirt of some useless-looking fabric, better suited to bed than to an excursion among the dangers of the wood, and shape-hugging dark blue pants that tapered down to unusual, pink-colored under-the-ankle footwear with bright white laces.  She was strikingly beautiful, with large blue eyes, and full, painted-red lips.  She wore her hair loose, the dark brown waves tumbling down past her shoulders.

</p><p>She stopped a few feet away, and looked them over, and then, rather than identify herself, as would be the custom, she posed a question.

</p><p>“Is there a renaissance fair nearby or something?”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They were an odd pair, the two men.  

</p><p>Normally she would never have considered approaching two strange men in the woods, by herself, but something about their manner and appearance— they seemed to be costumed in medieval garb, and one of them was holding a lute: actors, perhaps— put her more at ease.  They certainly weren’t run-of-the mill meth-heads or anything.  

</p><p>Still, she wasn’t completely stupid; she took her phone out of her pocket again and held it up, zoomed in as best she could, keeping the two men in the frame, and took a picture.  Sent it to Jane along with a quick text:  <em>Hey, if I turn up dead, look into these two guys</em>.  She knew the text wouldn’t go through until she got within range of a cell tower, but it was better than nothing.

</p><p>She put the phone back into her pocket and began to approach them, cautiously.  The guy with the lute stood up, while the other man stood firm, watching her approach.  As she neared them, she could see a pretty, chestnut-colored horse tied to a tree behind them, and that also made her feel slightly easier.  Modern murderers tended not to flee on horseback.  Maybe they were re-enactors, LARPers… 

</p><p>The lute guy— the friendlier-looking of the two— was outfitted like a stereotypical medieval bard.  He was dressed in high-waisted trousers and a short, bolero-type jacket with puffed-out sleeves, slitted to let the darker-colored lining show. Both jacket and pants were the light, purple-blue color of periwinkles.  Everything about him screamed <em>harmless</em>. He was like someone she'd have been friends with in high-school theater...

</p><p>The other man, in contrast, was fierce-looking— ready for battle.  He was dressed head-to-toe in black: black boots, black leather trousers, a heavy black jerkin laced up over a black chemise, belted at the waist.  The belt was connected to a cross-body strap that appeared to secure an enormous broadsword to the man’s back.

</p><p>He had long white hair, the bangs pulled back and secured by a tie.  The color was like that of an old man, though the lines on his face suggested no more than thirty-odd years, forty at the most.  He was tall and broad— a heavily-muscled build evident beneath the thick articles of clothing— and his face was objectively handsome, with a strong, chiseled nose and a perfectly-cleft and slightly jutting butt-chin that reminded her, oddly, of Superman.

</p><p>There was something strange about his eyes— there was an eerie yellowish cast to the iris, and pupils that didn’t seem quite right: like he was wearing some kind of fancy cosplayer contact-lenses.

</p><p>A circular, metallic pendant was visible above the lacings of his leather jerkin— like a large, silver coin, hanging from a silver chain.  It had something engraved on it, but she wasn’t close enough to see what it was. 

</p><p>She spoke first:

</p><p>“Is there a renaissance fair nearby or something?”  

</p><p>She was really hoping the answer was <em>yes</em>: she could eat, drink, pee, maybe get a ride… and then she cursed silently, realizing she didn’t have her backpack— she’d left it at the Sanctum Sanctorum.  She had no money, no anything: nothing to trade, other than her phone, or the amphora… no jewelry, but for a pair of tiny, cheap, gold-plated hoop earrings…

</p><p>The bard stage-whispered to the warrior-man, without taking his eyes off of her.  “Don’t talk to her,” he said.  “She’s a— what is she?”

</p><p>“She’s not magical,” said the warrior-man.  He’d reached up to touch his pendant, and then let his hand drop again.  His voice was very low, like a smooth, controlled growl— as though he were pitching it below his natural range.  It was oddly captivating, though it lacked any obvious emotion… and good lord, he really was extremely, unfairly attractive— the deep, masculine voice just adding to his appeal.

</p><p>She almost felt guilty for a second— for having that kind of knee-jerk response to this strange, weirdly beautiful man— until she reminded herself that <em>Bucky</em> had been the one to call for a break, not her; and anyway, she was only looking…

</p><p>“Are you guys part of an acting troupe or something?” she said.  “Your costumes are amazing.  Is that a real sword?”

</p><p>“Who are you?” said the warrior man, ignoring her questions.  His creepy yellow eyes were fixed on her, his body unmoving.  “Where do you come from.”

</p><p>“Uh… New York,” she said, declining, for now, to give out her name.  

</p><p>“New York,” said the bard, looking quizzically at the other man.  “Never heard of it.  Have you?”

</p><p>Darcy was getting a better look at the medallion on the warrior-man’s necklace.  It had a wolf’s head on it, in profile.  It was baring its fangs.  She looked up at the man’s face again.  At his weird, witchy eyes.  She could swear she saw the pupils change… like they were real, not cosplay contacts…

</p><p>“Uhh…” she said, taking a step back.  “Okay.  This is maybe gonna sound a little strange, but… what realm is this?”

</p><p>“Realm?” said the bard.

</p><p>“I mean, I realize you’re speaking English,” she said, “So… but…”

</p><p>“English?” said the bard, and Darcy’s heart was picking up, because all the evidence was beginning to point to something very very strange going on, and maybe these guys weren’t two nice renaissance-fest dudes who could lead her back to a bunch of stalls full of nerds playing at fencing and eating giant pickles on sticks…

</p><p>“She’s frightened,” said the warrior guy, in his deep, steady voice.  He was studying her intently.

</p><p>“We’re speaking the Common Tongue,” said the bard, looking confused.  “As are you.”  

</p><p>“Okay,” said Darcy, taking another step back, looking between the two of them.  “I don’t know what’s going on.  I mean, I’ve had some pretty weird things happen to me in this life, but…”

</p><p>She looked down at the amphora, and when she looked up again, she could see that the two men had followed her gaze— were now looking at it too.

</p><p>“This… thing,” she said.  “I think it brought me here, wherever this is…”

</p><p>“May I see it?” said the warrior guy, and when he took a step toward her, she took another step back.  He stopped, putting his hands up, as though to calm her…

</p><p>She hesitated a moment, and then stepped toward him, handing over the little clay vessel.

</p><p>He took it carefully— examined it a moment, turning it over in his hands.  “It is magical in nature,” he said, confirming what she already knew.  And then, after peering at the base for a moment, he said, “It bears the mark of the master potters of Induzia.”  He handed it back to her.  “How did you come by it?”

</p><p>“It, uh… it belongs to a wizard I know.  I guess I used it by accident.”

</p><p>“A wizard,” said the warrior.  “Which wizard.”

</p><p>“Or sorcerer, really," she said. "I don't know the proper... whatever. His name is Doctor Strange?”

</p><p>The two men looked at each other.  The bard shrugged.

</p><p>“An odd sort of name,” said the warrior.

</p><p>“Do you know how to work one of these things?” she said. “I mean, maybe it’s just out of charge, or…”

</p><p>“The Tower of Laschsmeider is a few days’ journey from here,” said the warrior.  “They may have the answers you seek.  I do not.”

</p><p>“Oh,” she said.  “Are they…”

</p><p>“There are sorcerers there,” he said.  “Among others…”

</p><p>The bard tilted his head, raised his eyebrows as he glanced at the warrior.  “Perhaps we should… escort the lady?”  His eyebrows fell as he was met with a stony glare from the other man.  “What?”

</p><p>The warrior shook his head and turned, heading off in the direction of a little waterfall in the distance.

</p><p>“What’s up his ass,” grumbled Darcy, as she watched the guy stomp away— something uncomfortably familiar about that brooding, nonverbal manner… as frustrating as it was oddly attractive: for a second there, he’d reminded her so much of Bucky, in one of his moods… 

</p><p>God, <em>Bucky</em>. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he knew something had happened to her.  If he’d even give a shit. 

</p><p>“What’s your name?” she said, turning her attention back to the bard.  She didn’t want to think about Bucky.

</p><p>The bard was smiling— maybe at the crudeness of her earlier words, the ‘<em>what’s up his ass</em>,’ and then he made a funny sort of little bow and said, “Please forgive me, I’m so sorry— I’m Jaskier, and that grumpy old bear is Geralt.  Geralt of Rivia.  Perhaps you’ve heard of him?  I’ve composed many popular ballads celebrating his noble adventures…”

</p><p>“I’m Darcy,” she said, and she held out her hand, automatically, without answering his other question.  “Darcy Lewis.”

</p><p>Jaskier passed his lute to his other hand so he could return the handshake formally, with another congenial smile.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Darcy of New York.”

</p><p>“Is he always like that?” she said, nodding toward Geralt, who’d stopped in the distance, standing just to the side of the little waterfall.  He was refilling a large waterskin in the free-flowing stream.

</p><p>“I’m afraid so, yes,” said Jaskier.  “Maybe a bit worse, lately, to be honest.  Having a bit of… female trouble.”

</p><p>“Oh yeah?" she said, humorlessly. "What’d he do, butter the wrong biscuit?”

</p><p>Jaskier barked out a laugh and then said, grinning, “Oh, I <em>like</em> that.  Can I use that?”

</p><p>“Sure?” she said.  “I guess? It’s not original or anything.”

</p><p>Jaskier made a dismissive sound, giving Darcy her first smile of the day…

</p><p>“So what is it?” she pressed.  “He get dumped or something?”

</p><p>“Not exactly,” he said.  He glanced over to Geralt, and then turned so that his back was to the man, as though he feared being overheard, even at that distance. “You know those infuriating couples who were made for each other,” he began.  “And yet… they engage the better part of their time— which could otherwise be spent in mutual bliss— rather weighed in pointless bickering and ceaseless obstinacy?”

</p><p>“Uh… yeah,” she said, without elaborating.  “Unfortunately.”

</p><p>“One finds oneself tempted to murder them both,” he said.  “As an act of kindness to all involved.”

</p><p>He sighed, his face more empathetic for a moment.  “His heart is heavy,” he said.  “And as a consequence, he’s been an insufferable bastard— more than usual, even for him.  He even tried to scare me off, with the lash of his tongue.”  He crossed his arms over his chest, raised his eyebrows as though defiant.  "But I shan't let him." His face fell a little.  "Even if it hurts."

</p><p>"Bark's worse than his bite, huh?" she said sympathetically.

</p><p>Jaskier dropped his arms. "Oh, I like that <em>too</em>," he said, enthusiastically, his cheer returned.  "Can I—"

</p><p>"Yeah, you can have it," she said.  "That one's not mine either.  It's ancient.  At least, where I come from."

</p><p>Jaskier was about to reply, when he glanced back and shut his mouth— could see Geralt trudging back their way, firmly fitting the cork into the waterskin as he walked.  When he reached them, he ignored the two of them entirely, instead moving wordlessly to the tied-up horse, and secured the filled waterskin to one of the saddlebags.  He sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment, and then spoke, without turning to look at them. 

</p><p>“We’d best be going,” he said tiredly, “if we want to make camp again before nightfall.” 

</p><p>Jaskier shot a quick, triumphant grin at Darcy, already understanding that the man was referring to all three of them— that, in spite of his earlier icy glare, he'd come to the only honorable conclusion: of <em>course</em> they would have to escort the lady— at least to the nearest town, if not all the way to the Tower.  No matter how cold and grumpy and mean he made himself out to be, there were no two ways about it: Geralt was a good man.

</p><p>He finally looked over to Darcy.  “Are you prepared for a lengthy walk?” he said, his eyes raking up and down her body, like he was doubtful she’d be up to it. 

</p><p>“Don’t see what choice I have,” she said.  “I—”  She glanced at Jaskier and then back to the other man.  “I don’t have any money.  I can’t pay you.  I left my backpack in the Sanctum.”

</p><p>“The Sanctum,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing.  His gaze was steady now, piercing, and she averted her eyes to evade its intensity.  

</p><p>“The uh… the wizard’s place.  In New York.”

</p><p>“Ah.”  

</p><p>“I, um... I don't want to take advantage," she said, feeling uncomfortable in the face of his obvious displeasure with the situation. "You probably have other stuff you need to do. I mean, maybe you could give me directions, or…”

</p><p>He finally broke his gaze, looking back to the fittings on the horse— tightened some straps, and then began untying the lead from the tree-trunk, the words delivered as emotionlessly as any of the others: “You would not survive a day in these woods on your own, much less navigate around the Mug Donr without succumbing to any one of a dozen grisly and painful deaths.  It's rather auspicious that you came across us as quickly as you did.”

</p><p>“Oh,” she said, and when she looked at Jaskier, he simply flashed her another cheerful grin.

</p><p>Geralt finished untying the horse, and, without another word, set off on his way, following the line of the stream, leading the horse by its bridle.

</p><p>Jaskier quickly leaned over to grab his leather pack, shouldered it, and then slung the wide leather strap of his lute over his head and shoulder.  He swiveled the instrument around to rest it against his back, and then held out his hand, like an invitation, in the direction of Geralt, who was clearly not planning to slow down or wait for anyone.  

</p><p>“After you,” said Jaskier, politely.

</p><p>“I really hope this isn’t a mistake,” said Darcy, as she accepted the invitation and began to follow Geralt's path along the stream.

</p><p>“Well,” said Jaskier brightly, as he fell into step beside her.  “Even if it is, at the very least, you’ll come out the other side with a story to tell.  One thing I can say about traveling with Geralt:  it’s never boring.”

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: There is some canon-typical violence and threats of assault in this chapter.  I have updated the tags accordingly.</p><p> </p><p> </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>It’d been hours of almost nonstop walking.  Her legs were getting tired, her feet sore.  She was hungry and thirsty.  She knew there was a waterskin— had seen Geralt filling it at the waterfall— but was reluctant to ask for a drink, if that one small pouch was the only clean water they carried.

</p><p>The men seemed to take it all in stride, no complaints.  She supposed this amount of exercise was typical for them.  They probably walked all day, every day, unless they were in a town.  There was the horse, whom Darcy had learned was called Roach— named for a type of fish— but neither of the men chose to ride rather than walk, and nobody had invited Darcy to climb up, either.  The mare seemed more of a companion to Geralt, than anything else.

</p><p>Darcy kept her discomfort to herself— found she was self-conscious about her fatigue. She knew she was soft— a city girl: pampered with places to sit, all day long. Limitless options for food and drink all around, if you had the money.  

</p><p>She was out of shape.  Bucky was always trying to get her to go the gym with him.  She’d gone a few times, but she’d felt stupid, sitting there on her ass, breaking a sweat on practically the lowest setting on the stationary bike, while he lifted ten bajillion pounds of weights threaded onto heavy metal bars…

</p><p>She supposed he’d have a better time, now that he could work out with Natasha Romanov instead.  A better match for him, all around.

</p><p>She could feel the blisters forming on her feet— on the tips of her toes, and on the backs of her ankles, where the heel-tabs of her almost-brand-new sneakers were rubbing against her skin, exposed by her low-cut socks…

</p><p>Darcy was no stranger to walking— most New Yorkers did a fair amount of it— but this was extreme.  She hadn’t walked this much since she’d first moved to Manhattan and had gotten lost in Central Park one day: had wandered for over an hour, going in circles, afraid to ask for directions for fear of looking vulnerable or stupid— and when she’d finally emerged, relieved, somewhere on the east side, she’d still had to walk four long blocks to the nearest subway entrance.

</p><p>Adding to her physical discomfort was her underlying stress and fear— all the unknowns she was already facing, and that yet lay ahead of her. 

</p><p>Suffice it to say, Darcy wasn’t a happy camper.  Without Jaskier there to cheer her up, she would have been in tears an hour ago…

</p><p>If she’d known her companions better, she would have asked for a breather— but
the last thing she wanted to do was complain; it was a stroke of luck that she’d run into these men— that they not only bore no ill-intentions toward her, but were actually willing to help: to go out of their way to escort her to this Tower of Lashma-blah-blah Whatever…

</p><p>If it’d just been Jaskier, she probably would have spoken up; would have suggested a short break— the guy was so affable and easygoing.  His cheerful demeanor, conveyed through an almost constant stream of discourse, went a long way to distracting her from the core fear that’d been nagging at her for some time: that she could very well be stuck here— marooned on another world, another time, perhaps another <em>reality</em>— forever.  

</p><p>She hadn’t ruled out the theory that this strange— yet familiar-to-an-Earthling—place was some other version of her own planet… maybe along some alternate timeline.  There were too many similarities to her own world to disregard the possibility, especially with Doctor Strange being involved. 

</p><p>Jaskier, through his continuous babble, was filling in some of the more basic blanks— more than happy to answer her questions, when able.  When he wasn’t telling her about the world she’d found herself in, he kept her entertained in other ways— would swing his lute around from his back to his front, and fill up the silence that way: strumming little tunes and singing along to them, as they worked to keep pace with Geralt.

</p><p>While Jaskier was open enough about his own life— he clearly enjoyed sharing the details of his own adventures— his silent, sturdy companion remained a mystery, for the most part.

</p><p>The man was impossible to read.  He’d maintained his distance— nearly a dozen yards ahead of them— for the entire journey thus far.  He’d barely spoken: had probably said fewer than ten words altogether, since they’d begun to walk, apart from the occasional quiet comment to his horse.

</p><p>Darcy couldn’t tell if the man was angry, grouchy, or simply introverted.  Maybe all of the above.  The only thing she was getting from her view of the back of his head, and the solid, meaty frame that supported it, was a determination to reach their destination sooner rather than later.

</p><p>He kept them all moving at a steady clip, save for a few brief stops, here and there, when he’d slow, having spied something of interest to the side of the trail.  Occasionally he’d investigate further— crouching to examine some leaves or flowers, while Darcy and Jaskier waited.  Rarely, he’d take some cuttings.  

</p><p>At first, she’d been happy for these little interruptions— hoping to take a rest— but she’d learned otherwise the first time it happened, when she’d no sooner sat down, thankful to get off her feet, than the man had pushed up again after only a few minutes, stowed his gatherings, and began walking again, without a single word to anyone.

</p><p>Darcy was trying not to take the silent-treatment personally: he didn’t talk to Jaskier, either, and they were supposed to be long-time friends, from what she’d gathered.

</p><p>The man’s glacial demeanor— and her position: always walking behind him— afforded her few clues about his personality or attitude, other than his obvious desire not to be bothered.  It did, however, give her a very nice view of his ass.

</p><p><em>Yup</em>, she thought, as she walked along, trying not to be too obvious in her ogling of the guy’s butt, and the way it filled out his leather pants… <em>Dude’s definitely got a five-star caboose… among other things</em>…

</p><p>Jaskier paused the ballad he was working on— something about a thick-thighed woman who could bend herself double— and let out a little chuckle, followed by a sort of stage whisper, his head turning sideways to lower his voice…

</p><p>“Not the worst view in the world, eh?”

</p><p>He must not have been quiet enough, because she could see Geralt, ahead, react to the comment with some confusion— he glanced up and to the side, as though trying to make sense of it: for there was no ‘view’ at the moment— only trees, trees, and more trees, everything beyond a few dozen feet around them obscured by the thick cover of the forest…

</p><p>Darcy could feel her face heating up— hated that she’d been busted.  She averted her eyes, trying to keep them pointed at anything other than the man in front of them.  And why was she even looking?  She shouldn’t be looking…

</p><p>She immediately began to rationalize. 

</p><p>Looking wasn’t cheating— was it?  And even if it were, did it really matter anymore?  At best, she and Bucky were on a ‘break’, whatever that meant.  At worst, he was done with her.  Either way…

</p><p>She flashed again to that scene she’d walked in on, back at the Tower, before all this had happened… to the sick feeling she’d gotten when she’d seen them there, together, in the hallway: Bucky and the Black Widow.  She remembered how they’d been grinning at each other with a special kind of fondness: like they were the best of friends… 

</p><p>It was only a short step from there, to imagining his reaching out to touch— to tug on a lock of the redhead’s hair, with a playful little smirk… just like he used to do with Darcy, back in the beginning, when he was being a flirt…

</p><p>He’d been sweet…

</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, she didn’t want to think about it— to remember what it’d been like between them, back before it got complicated.  And then to imagine <em>them</em>— Bucky and Natasha— together… 

</p><p>“There, there,” said Jaskier, misunderstanding her fallen face.  “It happens to the best of us.”

</p><p>She couldn’t help smiling a little at that, and then she glanced at the bard appraisingly.  Though she’d gathered, through his many stories so far, that the man was no stranger to the pleasures of a woman’s bed, it didn’t come as any surprise to learn that the guy drank from both taps…

</p><p>“Just… a bit of friendly advice?” he said, lowering his voice even more, and then he even turned, so that he was walking backwards as he spoke.  “Don’t fall in love.  It doesn’t work out very well.”

</p><p>“For him, or for the other person,” muttered Darcy. 

</p><p>“Neither.”

</p><p>He turned around again, and they walked in silence for a few seconds.

</p><p>“I’m not—” she started to say… “I mean I’m already…”

</p><p>She’d meant to say that she wasn’t looking for anything— that she already had a man, was already in love with someone. But it was only partly true.  

</p><p>She didn’t have shit.  Just a bunch of inconvenient feelings that were probably one-sided, at this point.  And irrelevant, in any case, unless someone could help her get back to her own world.

</p><p>And for some reason, right then, it finally hit her, hard… the truth of it: that even if she did get back— and that was a big <em>if</em>— Bucky was done with her.  That word he’d used: ‘break’— it’d just been his way of being polite. To let her down easy, so he wouldn’t have to see her cry, or…  

</p><p>She had no doubt that he hadn’t meant to hurt her.  He wasn’t a bad person.  But <em>God</em>… from the looks of things, he’d already moved on— and it was impossible to pretend that seeing him with someone else didn’t hurt like a motherfucker…

</p><p>She looked at Geralt: the man had stopped again— had crouched down to collect a little bundle of greens with tiny cream-colored flowers.  He brought them carefully to his nose, his eyes shutting briefly as he took in their scent, the breeze playing with some loose strands of his long, grey-white hair…

</p><p>She got a little lost in the vision of him: this strange, intense, and— it had to be said— objectively handsome man.  He looked like a drawing from some kind of fantasy novel or role-playing game: an unrealistic ideal version of a masculine warrior.  Even the strong, chiseled line of his profile was too perfect to be real. And yet it was. 

</p><p>The guy was hot— no question about it. If she had any brains at all, she’d try to hit that while she had the chance.  It’d be good for her.  Patch up her battered self-esteem, just a little.  Not that he’d given her any sign that he’d be even remotely interested…

</p><p>She realized she was openly staring again, and she ducked her head self-consciously, diverting her gaze to Jaskier instead: he’d taken the opportunity of the brief stop to go fetch the waterskin, which was strapped to the horse’s saddle. He uncorked it, but then walked it back over to Darcy— offered it to her first, like a gentleman.

</p><p>The water was warm, and didn’t taste very good, but she was grateful for it, nonetheless.  “What are the flowers for, anyway?” she said quietly, after she’d taken a drink.

</p><p>She’d thought, at first, that the man was foraging for edibles along the way… but the way he treated the specimens— examining them thoughtfully, and then wrapping and stowing them carefully— seemed more like the behavior of a botanist than a chef…

</p><p>“They’re ingredients,” said Jaskier.  He took the waterskin back from her when she held it out— drank of it himself. “For potions.” 

</p><p>“Potions,” she repeated, as she watched him walk the waterskin back to the horse and reattach it.   

</p><p>Geralt had finished his collecting, and Jaskier moved out of the way so that the other man could access the saddlebag; he opened it up, and placed the little bundle of cut flowers carefully into a smaller pouch inside. He re-secured the bag— whispered something to Roach, who gave him a gentle nudge with her nose— and then began to walk again. 

</p><p>She was intrigued, in spite of herself— in spite of the warning voice saying, <em>don’t do it: don’t fall for another closed-off, broody man</em>…

</p><p>“Is he like… a magic-user or something?” said Darcy, as she and Jaskier once again fell into step behind the man and his horse.  “I figured him for a straight-out warrior, what with the sword and the badass outfit and, you know…”  She almost blushed again as she said it: “The body…”

</p><p>“He’s a witcher,” said Jaskier.  He’d pulled his lute around into his hands, and then strummed a chord and began to sing: “<em>Toss a coin to your witcher</em>—” but cut himself off abruptly when Geralt turned for a second to glare at him…

</p><p>“A witcher,” she repeated. “What’s that?”

</p><p>Jaskier looked at her curiously.  “You really <em>are</em> from somewhere else, aren’t you.”

</p><p>“I mean, I’ve heard of <em>witches</em>,” she said.  “But those are like… mostly just made-up stories where I come from.  And they’re usually women.”

</p><p>“Witchers,” he said,  “are monster-hunters.  It’s their trade— they wander the land, looking for work…”

</p><p>“Monsters,” she said.  “Like…”

</p><p>“Oh, you know,” he said.  “Kikimores, chimeras… vyppers, wyverns,  hellhounds… selkiemores…” 

</p><p>He rattled off the names of a half-dozen more creatures— some of them odd, some of them familiar— and when he’d finished the list, he added, “And then of course you’ve got your run-of-the-mill ghouls and wraiths and swamp snakes…”

</p><p>“Huh,” she said.  “Sounds like a video game.”  

</p><p>He looked at her questioningly— not understanding the words— but rather than try to explain, she just glanced to the side of the path they were on, looking uneasily into the forest beyond.  “Should I be worried?”

</p><p>“No need,” he said, with a smile, and he punctuated the thought with a pretty, bright-sounding chord.  “You’ll be safe as long as Geralt’s with us.  He’s got heightened senses— all witchers do, so I’m told— Geralt maybe even more than most.  He’ll catch a whiff of any of those beasties well before either of us would have any clue of their proximity.”

</p><p>“Good to know,” she said, although she still felt the uncomfortable prickle of vulnerability.  She wished she had her taser. “We don’t have any of those things where I come from.”

</p><p>“No monsters?” said Jaskier.  He strummed a couple more chords: these more introspective, like they were sounding his thought-process.  “It’s true, there are fewer monsters about than once were— at times our friend here is even hard-up for work— but it’s still a perilous land for the unprotected.  Especially in the wilderness.”  

</p><p>He moved his fingers to a new position on the fingerboard, and strummed another chord.  Frowned a little, and moved his left hand up to the end of the neck, to adjust one of the tuning pegs.  Tried the chord again, and then played another, apparently happy with the adjustment.  “No monsters,” he said, repeating himself. “Must be nice.”

</p><p>“Oh, we have monsters,” she said.  “They’re just… you know.  The human kind.”

</p><p>She saw Geralt turn his head back ever so slightly at her words, just for a moment, but he didn’t comment, didn’t vary his pace.

</p><p>She found herself staring at his ass again, and then she thought about the man’s odd, yellowish eyes… the not-quite-normal pupils…  

</p><p>“What about…” she started to say, and then she turned a little to the side, mindful of the bard’s earlier comment about Geralt’s heightened senses— didn’t want the man to overhear her next question. “I mean… is <em>he</em>…”  She lowered her voice even more, to almost a whisper.  “Is he <em>human?</em>”

</p><p>“Well,” began Jaskier, and just then Geralt stopped.  

</p><p>He turned and looked back at them, his face both tired and resigned: like a parent praying for bedtime to come early.  His low, rumbling voice, though nearly a monotone, managed to convey a deep but quiet aggravation, as he rolled out the greatest number of words she’d heard from him in the past four hours.  They formed a complaint:

</p><p>“Are the two of you going to talk for the entire trip?”

</p><p>“I thought we might, yes,” said Jaskier immediately— clear and happy— and Darcy had to turn her head away to hide her snort-laugh…

</p><p>Geralt let out a long, suffering sigh— the most human emotion she’d seen from him thus far— and then he turned away and took up walking again.  She could hear him mutter something to the horse…

</p><p>“I think we pissed off Dad,” whispered Darcy, and Jaskier laughed and then began to strum and sing again as they walked, quickly improvising a tune about a man with seven wives and twenty-eight children: of his stalwart efforts to feed them all, and the pitiable suffering he endured from such an abundance of love…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Who are they?” whispered Darcy, as she peered around Jaskier’s body.  

</p><p>They’d just rounded a bend in the road— had stopped, just before the entrance to a wide stone bridge, spanning a deep gorge with a rushing river at its bottom.  There was a nasty-looking group of men gathered at the other side.  As soon as they’d seen them, Darcy had ducked behind Jaskier instinctively.

</p><p>She could hear the rapid rush of the water far below— a dangerous drop, the water turbulent.  The men at the other end— she counted a dozen, if there weren’t others hidden nearby— seemed to have taken up camp there, blocking the way.  They looked to be heavily armed.

</p><p>“Brigands,” said Geralt, simply.  He’d halted as well, apparently sizing up the situation.  The men at the other end hadn’t moved— seemed perfectly comfortable waiting for the three of them to make the decision to either retreat, or approach.

</p><p>“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” muttered Darcy, not caring that the reference would be lost on them…

</p><p>Geralt seemed to be weighing something.  He looked up to the sky— checked the position of the sun.  Exhaled, shook his head.  “It’s no good,” he said.  “The nearest alternate crossing is over a half-day’s journey to the east.  We have to cross here.”

</p><p>He whispered to his horse, and led her to the side of the road— secured her to a tree.

</p><p>“Are we— what are we doing?” asked Darcy nervously.  

</p><p>She had no doubt that Geralt was tough— could probably take on several fighters at once— but they were still hopelessly outnumbered.  She didn’t think Jaskier could do much in a fight, unless his lute was some kind of weapon-in-disguise, and Darcy herself was all but useless without her taser.

</p><p>“Stay behind me,” said Geralt, and he was already walking away, heading toward the bridge. “Or better yet,” he added, turning his head to look back at them briefly. “Stay back.  For now.”

</p><p>He didn’t need to ask twice.  Darcy and Jaskier held their position next to Roach, while they watched the nasty-looking men sit up and take notice of the lone warrior now headed their way. 

</p><p>Though they were well back from the bridge, she could easily hear the man who broke off from the group— either their leader, or a spokesman— as he approached Geralt, looking to meet him halfway:

</p><p>“Oi— you there! With the sword. That’s far enough.”

</p><p>“Fuck,” whispered Darcy, very nervous now.  She instinctively crouched down a little, though it was pointless— there was nowhere to hide, and anyway, they’d all been seen. “Is he gonna be okay?  Should we run, or—”

</p><p>“No, no— we’re fine,” said Jaskier.  He didn’t seem nervous at all; wasn’t even trying to hide or be subtle— was in fact rummaging around in the saddlebags, looking for something. He finally pulled out a couple of apples and shined one against the fabric of his jacket.  “Want one?” he said.

</p><p>Darcy took the fruit wordlessly— automatically— but didn’t even think about eating it; just held it in her hand as she continued to breathlessly watch the group on the bridge. 

</p><p>Some of the other brigands from the far end had also stood up by now, and were casually drifting toward the midpoint— a subtle reminder, perhaps, of their numbers, and their intention to support their leader.  

</p><p>She could see weapons in their hands, the metal parts glinting in the sunlight: daggers, some of them… a couple of creepy-looking curved blades, like something from <em>Children of the Corn</em>.  One man carried what looked like a home-made battle-axe: a cross between a hatchet and a sledgehammer, with irregular metal spikes forged to the blunt side of the head.

</p><p>They were all dressed in a random-looking mish-mash of clothing and molded-leather armor, none of it matching: like maybe they stripped their kills and added to their individual stashes, bit-by-bit.  

</p><p>“Fuck,” she said again.  “This is bad.” She looked up at Jaskier, who was eating his apple, totally unfazed.  “This is bad, right?” she said, but he just shrugged.  She turned her attention back to Geralt, who’d reached the midpoint and stopped.

</p><p>He seemed perfectly calm— she could tell he was saying something to the leader, but with his back turned, Darcy couldn’t make out the words.

</p><p>“What’s he saying?” she whispered, but before Jaskier could answer, the leader turned his head toward them, and called out.

</p><p>“You two!  What you hidin’ over there?  Show yourselves!”

</p><p>“Shit,” muttered Jaskier, showing apprehension for the first time, but then added,  “Don’t worry,” when he saw the fear on Darcy’s face.  He took another bite of apple and then grabbed her hand, and then they walked, together, over to the bridge, leaving Roach behind.  They stopped a few feet behind Geralt, who’d briefly turned to watch their approach, his face saying nothing.

</p><p>Now that she had a better look at the brigands, Darcy felt even less confident.

</p><p>These were not good men.  These were not the type of reasonable, intelligent men with whom you could hope to parley— to come to some sort of mutual understanding.  These were the kind of men whom, if you saw them in the parking lot of a bar, you’d give a very wide berth— avoiding all eye contact.  Just get the fuck out.  After one brief glance at them, she kept her eyes lowered, her hand gripping Jaskier’s like a lifeline.

</p><p>Jaskier, for his part, launched immediately into a cheerful greeting, completely ignoring all the prevailing cues that they were about to get all of their organs ripped out and roasted on a spit.  

</p><p>“Good afternoon, gentleman,” he began, and then immediately shut up when everyone, including Geralt, glared at him…

</p><p>“What’s it gonna be, then,” said the leader, his eyes back on Geralt.  He was short, but looked solidly built.  His bald head was pitted with scars, and what few teeth he had left appeared to be rotten. He and his men were all grinning— almost gleeful: like they knew they had all the cards.  Were smug about it.

</p><p>And then it was Geralt’s turn to speak:

</p><p>“I suggest you let us pass now,” he said. “Free of charge.  Without incident.”

</p><p>The leader cracked another grin.  “And I’ll suck your mother’s cunt for a side of pudding,” he said, and then dropped the smile. “What do you take me for— a scullery whore?”  His eyes went to Darcy— looked her up and down, and then the smile was back, and he licked his wormy lips.  “But I tell you what— you let each of us have a crack at <em>your</em> whore—”

</p><p>“Hey!” said Darcy, the protest instinctive— and then the man finished stating his offer:

</p><p>“… and I’ll let the lot of you by for half price.  You know: when we’ve had our fill.”

</p><p>Darcy stepped a bit more behind Jaskier, which just made the leader laugh, giving them a good view of those rotten teeth…

</p><p>His men started laughing too: all in agreement, apparently, that the situation was a fucking hoot.

</p><p>Geralt was smiling as well— but unlike the others, his was a scary sort of smile, completely lacking in humor.  He shook his head and spoke through his teeth, his voice a low growl. “No deal.”

</p><p>“Then fuck off,” said the leader, and he spat on the ground between them, and then nodded his head sideways, toward his men— issued a bored-sounding command:  “Kill them. Take the girl.”

</p><p>Darcy may have whimpered a little, her hands grabbing onto the back of Jaskier’s jacket, already stumbling backwards, trying to tug him along with her…

</p><p>She was dimly aware of Geralt dropping his head as he cursed— a emphatic, simple, “<em>Fuck</em>…” 

</p><p>And then, as the motley band of brigands approached, their weapons beginning to move, to swing menacingly, their movements confident, cocky, Darcy had just enough time to curse as well, bemoaning what she was certain would soon be the end of Geralt— and the equally unsavory fate that was sure to follow, for her and Jaskier— when there was the sudden whoosh of metal and black, the blinding flash of a broadsword slicing through the air like a whirlwind, almost imperceptible—its movements too fast for any mortal to follow.

</p><p>Within seconds, there were three men bleeding on the ground, dying or dead, Geralt standing over them, frozen in a warrior’s pose, arms bent up, sword bloody, aimed at the others: ready for the next wave…

</p><p>“What the <em>fuck</em>,” said Darcy, and she was still trying to back up— to get away from the fight— but her legs failed, and she fell onto her ass and then she was scrabbling backwards like a crab, and Jaskier was tugging on her arm, trying to pull her up…

</p><p>And though her instincts were screaming at her to <em>run, get away</em>… to race back to Roach— ride fast and hard, for as long as she could— she nevertheless found herself mesmerized, as Geralt exhaled.  He lowered his sword and began to walk calmly toward the remaining group of men, now down their leader and his two bodyguards…

</p><p>They all looked at each other: apparently came to the stupid decision to band together and attack the lone warrior again, all eight or nine of them at once…

</p><p>And as they bared their teeth and began to come at him, growling, weapons raised, Geralt held up his left hand, his fingers coming together like he was pinching the air, and something rose out of them: like a shimmering of vapor around his fingertips— and when he released it, his hand flashing out, fingers aimed at the remaining brigands, it was like he’d unleashed an invisible, crushing force, the men thrust back as though pushed by a massive wall of wind, some of them knocked off their feet, their weapons forced out of their hands and clanking to the ground as they tumbled into one another…

</p><p>One of them was crying out: “<em>God’s sake, he’s a witcher— a bloody witcher</em>,” and those who still had their wits about them began to scatter and flee…

</p><p>Darcy had seen the whole thing— was still trying to push herself up, but failed, her limbs shaking from the adrenaline.  “What the fuck was <em>that?</em>” she shrieked.  “What <em>was</em> that?  Was that magic?”

</p><p>“What?” said Jaskier blandly, too distracted to give her a proper reply, and Darcy almost laughed at him, incredulous.  He’d been watching the exchange, and the ensuing melée, with the focused interest of a combat journalist: apparently trying to memorize all the juicy details, careless of his own safety.

</p><p>On the one hand, she got it: it was an incredible display of power— exhilarating to witness.  She would have been trying to capture it on her phone, if she’d had any guarantee of being able to charge it up ever again.  She’d been keeping it hidden— powered down to preserve the battery.

</p><p>On the other hand, she was scared shitless— or at least she had been…

</p><p>Geralt was already stalking his way back toward them, his gigantic sword loose in his hand, slick with blood.  Some of his long white bangs had come loose from the tie that otherwise held them back, out of his face, which still wore an intense expression: his teeth still bared, his yellow eyes gleaming like a wolf.  

</p><p>His clothing was striped and dripping with Jackson-Pollack-like sprays of blood and splatter.  He walked right past Darcy, where she still sat stunned on the ground, without so much as a glance…

</p><p>She should have been frightened by him, but…

</p><p>Oh boy.  

</p><p>Yeah, okay.  Maybe she should have already known this about herself, seeing as who her most recent object of lust was (yes, lust— because in her head she was already trying to change the facts, retroactively, out of some sort of self-defense.  It wasn’t love she’d felt for Bucky Barnes, after all: it’d just been simple, animal lust…)  

</p><p>She had a type, apparently, and here it was:  Mysterious, broody.  Built like a brick shithouse.  Capable of artfully-executed slaughter in the name of the greater good, if pushed…

</p><p>She’d never seen Bucky in action.  Hadn’t really wanted to— had been afraid it would be disturbing to see him hurt people: even bad people who deserved it.  

</p><p>Now she was re-thinking that… or would have been, if there’d been anything to re-think… and what the fuck did this say about <em>her?</em>  And yeah, he’d probably just saved her life, but it was more than that…

</p><p>God, she was fucked up…

</p><p>She was still sitting on the ground— had given up on trying to stand or even move, as she tried to process it: the threat of assault to her person… the almost elegant killing… the magic.  Her inappropriate response to it…

</p><p>Geralt was standing by Roach— looking like he was still working to bring his blood down, his shoulders visibly rising and falling, his back turned.

</p><p>“Is he okay?” said Darcy, as she watched him uneasily.

</p><p>“Oh, sure,” said Jaskier.  “It’s just… always a bit of a disappointment to him.”

</p><p>“What is,” she said.

</p><p>“Having to kill people.  He’s likely questioning whether the whole thing could have been avoided.”

</p><p>“I mean, I think he did his best,” she said, instinctively jumping to defend the man. “They could have just let us pass…”

</p><p>“Quite right,” said Jaskier, and then he sighed, and took another bite of apple.

</p><p>Geralt seemed to have gotten his shit together— took a moment to clean the blade of his sword, and then re-sheathed the weapon into its leather scabbard, worn diagonally across his back.  He untied Roach and looped up the lead.

</p><p>“We should go,” was all he said, in that deep, ever-steady voice, as he walked past the two of them.  Was already headed back onto the stone bridge, carefully leading the horse around the gory bits of bodies and parts that lay there in pools of blood and piss.  There was no sign whatsoever of the ones who’d run away: they were already long gone.

</p><p>“You okay?” said Jaskier, when Darcy remained frozen on the ground, just staring after Geralt as he walked away.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, in a slow voice, feeling like she was half-asleep— and maybe she was, because she didn’t even bother censoring her next thoughts:  “I’m just trying to figure out why the fuck I’m so turned on right now.”

</p><p>Jaskier just laughed at her words—  “Oh, you are in <em>big</em> trouble,” he said.  He tossed the core of his apple into the brush, and then wiped his hand off before holding it out to Darcy.  “Come on.  We better move.  He’s not going to wait for us.”

</p><p>She finally snapped out of it— looked up at her friend’s amused but empathetic face.  She reached up and grabbed onto the offered hand— let him help her up.

</p><p>“Okay,” she said.  Let out a shaky, cleansing breath, and dusted off her butt. “Let’s go.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Darcy was still holding the shiny red apple— the one that Jaskier had given her earlier, before the confrontation on the bridge got messy.  She clutched it to her chest protectively, as the two of them stepped around the bodies, her legs feeling weak and unreliable. She could smell the blood— pools of it under the fresh corpses— and something else: notes of something sour, reminiscent of vomit.  It made her heave a little, killing any desire to put food in her mouth…

</p><p>She was trying to get past the mess quickly, wanting to catch up to Geralt, but Jaskier stopped— crouched next to the fallen leader: the one with the rotten teeth. Darcy stopped too— looked back— could see Jaskier rummaging around in the blood-soaked clothing.

</p><p>“What are you doing?” she said, swallowing down another wave of nausea.  “Come on.”

</p><p>It wasn’t the first time she’d seen death, and she certainly didn’t pity these men: they would have hurt her, badly.  Would have killed Jaskier— a bright and shining soul— for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Still, she was trying not to look too closely at the carnage— kept moving her eyes up and away: at anything but the still-warm bodies on the bridge. 

</p><p>“Coming,” said Jaskier, as chipper as ever.  When he stood up, she could see that he was holding a small leather pouch.  He shook it, and she could hear the jingle of coin inside.  

</p><p>“Figured he might have a stash on him,” he said, as he stepped around the other bodies to rejoin her.  “You know, from his previous… tolls.”  He smiled, and then slipped the little pouch into his shoulder bag.  “But, uh… don’t mention it to Geralt,” he said, the smile dropping.  “He wouldn’t approve.”

</p><p>She snorted.  “I guess a guy’s gotta draw the line somewhere,” she said. “Murder? Dismemberment?  No problem.  But petty theft: whoa, there, buddy— that’s gone <em>too far</em>…”

</p><p>“Witchers aren’t thieves,” said Jaskier.  “At least, this one isn’t.  I’ve seen the man give away coin— money that he was badly in need of— that nobody would have been the wiser for, had he kept it for himself.”  

</p><p>He slid his shoulder bag around to his front again.  “Speaking of need,” he said, as he pulled the little coin pouch back out.  He stopped— loosened the drawstring on its neck— and then poured a dozen or so of the coins out, into his hand.  He held them out to her.  “Here,” he said, when she didn’t immediately move to accept them.  “I'm guessing you don’t have any of the local currency…”

</p><p>“You sure?” she said, and when he gestured with the handful again, prompting her to take it, she reached out and scooped up the coins.  “Thanks,” she said, a bit overwhelmed by his easy generosity.  

</p><p>She stirred the coins in her palm with her index finger— there were a few small silver pieces, but most of them were a golden color, and she picked one up to examine it more closely.  It had a crowned man’s profile stamped on one side, a coat of arms on the other.  There were no words or numbers on it: no indication of denomination, year minted, country of origin...
</p><p>“Is it thievery if the money was already stolen?” she mused, as she shoved the coins into the front-right pocket of her stretch-jeans. “I mean, who knows what happened to the people who came across these guys earlier.  Probably nothing good— safe to assume this money was extorted, at best.”

</p><p>They’d begun to walk again, side-by-side, and she added, “It’d be a waste to just leave it there.  It’s not like we could ever find out who it really belonged to.  If they’re even still alive…”

</p><p>“I like the way you think, Darcy Lewis,” said Jaskier, and he grinned down at her fondly as they once again slipped into the shadow of the forest, leaving the bridge, and the bodies, behind them.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They didn’t hurry, so it took some time to catch up to Geralt, who, as Jaskier had warned, wasn’t waiting for them. They could still see him leading Roach, up ahead, but he wasn’t slowing down in the slightest…

</p><p>“You don’t care for them?” said Jaskier, after a while.

</p><p>“What,” she said.  “Extortionists?”  

</p><p>She had no idea what he was talking about— had lost the thread of the conversation.  Truth be told, she was still a little dazed— had been replaying the scene from the bridge, over and over in her head: revisiting Geralt’s impressive, superhuman skill with the sword… the shimmer of energy that’d sprung from his fingertips…

</p><p>“No,” he said, laughing a little. “Apples.” He nodded pointedly at the still-uneaten fruit in her hand.

</p><p>“What?” she said again, sounding stupid, and then she shook her head— tried to focus.  “No, I love them,” she said.  “And I’m starving, honestly.  It’s just… I sorta lost my appetite, what with… you know.”

</p><p>Even as she said it, she gave into the suggestion: raised the fruit to her mouth and bit into it with a loud <em>crunch</em>.  The flesh was crisp and sweet-smelling, and she took a big whiff of the pale, exposed insides as she chewed, finding relief in it: finally replacing the odor of death that yet tried to cling to her senses…

</p><p>“We’ll eat something more substantial when we stop for the night,” said Jaskier.  “Geralt will hunt us up something or other: venison, if we’re lucky, or—”

</p><p>“We’re not stopping at a town?” she said, and took another big bite of apple, feeling her stress ratchet up again, just a tic.  

</p><p>Darcy hated camping, even under the best of circumstances.  She was sure she would like it even less, when there was the threat of bloodthirsty highwaymen waiting to ambush them, or magical creatures roaming the woods, to say nothing of a lack of modern facilities for washing up or relieving herself…

</p><p>“Not by nightfall, no,” he said.  “Perhaps not even by sundown tomorrow.  We’ve yet to cross the Mug Donr, and we shan’t reach the edges of the swamp until… probably mid-day.”

</p><p>“Swamp,” she repeated, and then sighed.  “Great.”

</p><p>“Not fond of swamps?” he said, with a teasing voice, and then, “Can’t say I’ve met anyone who is, really.  Unless you’re a toad.”  He burst into song— just a couple of lines, in his clear, resonant tenor: something about a princess-turned-frog...
</p><p>Darcy swallowed another mouthful of fruit and then commented, once Jaskier’s voice had trailed off: “Definitely not a frog,” she said.  “Or a toad. It’s just that any time there’s a swamp in a movie or a book, you just <em>know</em> some bad shit’s about to go down.”

</p><p>She could see him grinning— enjoying her little comments— and it encouraged her to go on:  “It’s always like, ‘<em>Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that our path just happens to take us directly through the Swamp of Timeless Suffering— but don’t worry</em>.”  She rolled her eyes and took another bite of her apple.

</p><p>Jaskier chuckled:  “Wouldn’t want to cross it on my own, that’s for sure,” he said.  “But we’ll be fine.”  And then he grinned, teasing her again:  “Nothing to worry about.”

</p><p>She’d finished the apple— tossed the core into the brush, and wiped her hands on her jeans.  “Hey,” she said, switching a more serious tone. “I, uh… I’ve been meaning to say… ever since the bridge.  Um… in case, you know, you were wondering.”

</p><p>“Wondering…”

</p><p>“I’m not.  What they said.  You know…”

</p><p>“Not what,” said Jaskier. 

</p><p>“A whore,” she said, glancing up at him, and then back at the trail.  “I’m not a whore.”

</p><p>“Oh,” he said, with perfect neutrality.  And then, a few seconds later: “I wouldn’t judge you for it.  Some of my best friends are… that is to say…”

</p><p>She rolled her eyes again— very aware of the fact that he hadn’t said ‘<em>never thought you were</em>’—  obviously still figured she might be: was trying to make her feel easy about it, even if she was going to lie to him about it— like someone playing along with a woman lying about her age, for vanity’s sake.

</p><p>“Really, I’m not,” she said. “Not that—  I mean, I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with— if the person…”   She sighed, annoyed with her own prevaricating.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.  Just— I’m not a whore, okay?  I just wanted to clear that up, is all.  I have a boyfriend.  Back home.  I mean, I did.  I guess.”

</p><p>“In New York,” said Jaskier.  He’d pulled his lute around, into his hands— was playing a quiet echo of the frog song.  

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said.  “Maybe.”

</p><p>“Maybe?”

</p><p>“I don’t even know any more,” she admitted.  “Maybe it was all a lie.”

</p><p>When he looked at her questioningly, she said, “We’re taking a break.”  It came out sounding a lot more sour than she’d intended.  “At least that’s what <em>he</em> said.”  She sighed again and said, “That was about three seconds before I caught him laughing it up with a very-well-constructed redhead.”

</p><p>“The <em>swine</em>,” said Jaskier, with equal parts humor and sympathy.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, though there was no heart to it.  And then, because she was pathetic, she went ahead and did it: fished for the information… 

</p><p>“What about him?” she said, lowering her voice.  They’d almost caught up to Geralt.  They were still far enough back to speak privately, but she didn’t want to take any chances of being overheard.

</p><p>“Geralt?” he said. “Have a boyfriend?” He sighed, with just a touch of drama. “Sadly, no…”

</p><p>“I mean… does he… are some of <em>his</em> best friends…”

</p><p>“He likes to say that he has no friends,” said Jaskier.  It was his turn to roll his eyes. “It’s rubbish, of course…”

</p><p>“No, I mean…”  She made a frustrated sound.  For a man who made a living off of embroidering clever turns of phrase and the artful use of euphemisms, the bard was being annoyingly thick…  “Is he… I mean, does he… do witchers even…”

</p><p>“Oh, I <em>see</em>,” he finally said.  “Well.  Certainly the man has had his fair share of… well, not since Yennefer, but…”

</p><p>“Who’s Yennefer,” said Darcy, discreetly, not failing to notice the way Jaskier’s voice had dropped along with the name.  “Is that— is she the… the ‘<em>female trouble</em>’ you mentioned before?”

</p><p>“We, uh… we don’t talk about her,” said Jaskier, uneasily, glancing at Geralt’s back, up ahead.

</p><p>“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”  She followed his cue— dropped it the subject completely— but she’d be lying to say she wasn’t even more intrigued…

</p><p>Her thoughts were interrupted when she stumbled over a divot in the ground, and cursed when she almost twisted her ankle.  “God <em>dammit</em>,” she said, hopping a little to regain her balance, and then cursed again, when she noticed that one of her sneakers was coming untied.  She stopped, squatting down to fix it.

</p><p>“You all right?”

</p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine,” she grumbled, as she pulled the laces tight, tied a quick-but-sturdy bow, and then pushed up again. “But my feet are fucking killing me.  Are we gonna walk the whole night, too?”

</p><p>“Unlikely,” he said.  "Wouldn't be very safe."  He looked up at the sky: just as Geralt had done on the bridge, he seemed to be checking the position of the sun.  It was already beginning to ease its way down— curving over in a wide arc to the west, just like on Earth. 

</p><p>“Geralt,” he called out, and when the man ahead of them neither slowed nor turned, Jaskier jogged a little to catch up.  She could hear his clear, happy voice as he spoke to the other man:  “Can we stop soon?  I think Darcy needs to rest, and her feet are sore…”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She did need to rest, but even more urgent, now, was her need to pee.  She’d been holding it for over an hour, at the tail-end of the march, feeling self-conscious about announcing it— hoping they’d make camp before the need became dire…

</p><p>That time had come: it was dire. 

</p><p>They’d set up camp in a little clearing in the forest, nothing around them but trees, the gathering darkness, and the sound of a multitude of unknown insects and nocturnal creatures…

</p><p>Jaskier had gone off to gather dry wood for a fire, while the Witcher had busied himself skinning a brace of fresh hare. 

</p><p>Darcy was watching him work— had never seen an animal skinned before. Had never eaten rabbit before, for that matter.  It wouldn’t have been her first choice— she was practically a vegetarian back home— but she wasn’t going to be picky, having eaten nothing but the apple since landing in the woods, and burning ten trillion calories on that death-march…

</p><p>She stood up, and stared silently at Geralt for a minute before saying anything.  He must have felt her intention to speak— it was pretty obvious— but he did nothing to invite it: didn’t look up, didn’t prompt her…

</p><p>She didn’t know why it was so hard for her to talk to him.  Jaskier didn’t seem put off by the man’s wall; he just blasted right through it whenever he had a question or comment.  

</p><p>Maybe it was that nagging similarity: the way the quiet, brooding man reminded her of Bucky, in more than a few ways.  It made her hesitate, second-guess herself… just as she’d been questioning, for the past few days, whether she’d handled Bucky all wrong…

</p><p>She cleared her throat.  “I, uh… I gotta go water the plants.”

</p><p>Thankfully, he got her meaning without further elaboration.  “Don’t go far,” was all he said, in that same, dusky monotone.

</p><p>“Ten-four,” she said.  

</p><p>She was aware that he would have no understanding of the jargon, but he didn’t even react to her words— was completely focused on his knifework.  He’d gotten all the skin off of both of the rabbits, and was, from the looks of things, preparing to gut them: an operation she was happy to miss…

</p><p>She wasn’t gone long— had no desire to spend any more time than necessary alone in the woods, even knowing the Witcher was just a shout away.  

</p><p>When she returned, he was still sitting there alone, working— Jaskier apparently still off collecting wood.

</p><p>“Is he gonna be okay?” she said, as she sat down again.  “Out there by himself?”  

</p><p>She was using one of the two spread-out woolen bedrolls that Jaskier had claimed for himself and her, arguing that the Witcher would be fine without one.  She’d wanted to protest, if just to be polite, but Geralt had made no complaint, so she’d let it go.  She leaned back against the saddle at the end of it, trying to make herself comfortable.  As with the bedroll, she was grateful for the use of it: Geralt had removed it from Roach when they first made camp— offered it to her as a backrest. 

</p><p>“He’ll scream if there’s any trouble,” he said, in answer to her question.  He’d finished cleaning the rabbits, and was now deftly whittling some greenwood to use as spits. 

</p><p>“So,” she said, as she watched him working with the knife.  She wasn’t sure how to broach it, or if she even should— but her curiosity got the better of her.  “Jaskier was telling me that you’re a…witcher?  Is that like… some kind of mage, or—”

</p><p>“Not a mage,” he said, in the same, flat voice.  Something about his response gave her the impression that her suggestion was an insult. Maybe there was some bad blood there: between witchers and mages…  

</p><p>“Were you born with all the—”

</p><p>“Not born,” he said,  interrupting her again.  “Made.”

</p><p>“Oh,” she said.  She figured she should probably just drop it— it seemed like a touchy subject.

</p><p>She shifted uncomfortably… was dying to take off her shoes— examine the damage, pop some of the blisters— but she didn’t; was reluctant to expose any more flesh to the whims of whatever biting or stinging insects were currently crawling all over the forest floor…

</p><p>“I was born human,” he said suddenly, without looking up.  And that was interesting, because it implied that he was no <em>longer</em> human…

</p><p>“So… how does it work,” she said.  “Do you apply to witcher school, or—”

</p><p>“No.”

</p><p>He didn’t elaborate, and though he’d been the one to bring it up again, she wasn’t sure she should press.  Whatever it was, it didn’t sound like a happy story, judging by his behavior.  But then, seeing as how he was always terse like that, it was impossible to tell.  

</p><p>He’d finished shaping the two sticks— carefully threaded the cleaned rabbits onto them, one-by-one, and then set them aside.

</p><p>“It wasn’t my choice to make,” he said, and then leaned forward, onto his knees— began to clear an area for the fire.  “It’s the life I have.  I do what I can with it.”

</p><p>She was quiet, watching him.  Trying— and failing— not to draw the obvious parallels, in her own mind: between the man before her, and her man back home.  Both of them so reticent, so resigned.  Both of them finding a way to live with an identity they didn’t choose.

</p><p>And then, for the first time since her arrival, she allowed herself to do it: to let herself see Bucky’s face clearly in her mind—  didn’t immediately try to push it away, as she’d done before.  She shut her eyes, let it happen… called up the sound of his voice, the spicy smell of his man-soap… the way his big hands felt, on her body— how he’d touched her with equal parts passion and care. 

</p><p>And then there were the intangible things: the way he’d made her feel, when he’d open up and laugh.  It made her ache a little, thinking about it.  About the way he wore a spontaneous smile: such a brightness, on a face she’d learned, privately, was so often burdened with worry or pain… 

</p><p>God, his smile… like the sun coming out… those little crinkles at the corners of his eyes...

</p><p>It was possible she’d never see that smile again.  She couldn’t bear the thought of that—felt sick about it, now that she was allowing herself to really confront the possibility. 

</p><p>If she actually made it out of this situation alive— found a way back to her own world— then she’d have to figure out what to do with her broken heart, but she knew now that she wouldn’t be angry at him anymore.  Couldn’t be.  She cared about him too much.  

</p><p>But how was she was going to cope with it? Working in the same building… seeing him around, possibly every day…

</p><p>Seeing him with another woman…

</p><p>It’d be intolerable.  Maybe she should quit, find a—

</p><p>“Are your feet still troubling you?”

</p><p>She startled, opening her eyes— broke out of her trance, at the sound of the Witcher’s deep, sonorant voice.  She’d been a million miles away…  

</p><p>She looked up, and could see that he was staring at her in the twilight— had been studying her, maybe, while her eyes were shut. 

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said.  “I guess.  I’m trying not to think about it.”

</p><p>“Let me see,” he said, and he pushed up, took the few steps to approach her. Crouched down again, by the end of her bedroll.  

</p><p>“What?” she said.  She’d heard him clearly enough, but the question was automatic.

</p><p>“Show me,” he said, and he nodded toward her feet.

</p><p>“Uh… okay,” she said, and sat up a bit.  Leaned forward to unlace and remove her shoes, one by one, and then pulled off her socks.

</p><p>She was a little embarrassed: her feet weren’t exactly the most appealing part of her body, in her opinion— and certainly not at the moment. Still, it was a relief to let her skin breathe.

</p><p>He was examining her feet without touching them— his face taking on an expression of subtle concern, as his eyes moved over the red, angry-looking blisters that’d developed over the long day of walking.  He shifted back, resting his thick forearm on his knee as he pressed his lips together— made a low sound in his throat: a kind of deep, resonant “<em>hmmm</em>…”

</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” she said, taking the sound for some kind of disapproval.  “These shoes are pretty new, so…”

</p><p>“You should have said something.”  He pushed himself up, and went over to the wide tree-trunk at the base of which he’d piled the saddlebags and some of the other gear.  She watched him rummage around in one of them, his back to her.

</p><p>“What are you doing?” she said.

</p><p>“I may have something that’ll help,” he said.  

</p><p>“Oh,” she said.  “Like a potion?  Or…”

</p><p>“A poultice.”

</p><p>He returned to where she sat with her legs stretched out, and once again crouched down by her feet.  He had a neat stack of medium-sized, bright green leaves; a tiny glass bottle with liquid in it; a skein of wide, plain cloth bandage— muslin, maybe; and what looked like a small, folded-up piece of paper.

</p><p>He hesitated then, before touching her skin— looked up at her without speaking, though his lips had parted: silently asking permission.

</p><p>“Yeah, go for it,” she said, though she felt a little silly— felt weird having this extremely attractive man handling her grubby, ugly, beat-up feet. Still, if he could ease the pain of those blisters… especially when they had another day of walking ahead of them…

</p><p>He took a minute to open up the paper— there was a pale, chalk-like powder inside— and then he uncorked the little bottle with his teeth, and poured a few drops of liquid onto the powder.  Mixed it with his finger.

</p><p>“What is that?” she said.

</p><p>“Scarix,” he said, and then he kneeled fully on the ground, and picked up one of her feet— propped it on one of his knees.  His fingers were rough, but warm.  “A kind of root,” he explained.   

</p><p>She tried not to flinch when he dabbed some of the cool, wet paste onto her skin, applying it carefully to one of the blisters on her toe, while his other hand held her foot steady.

</p><p>“Did you learn this at witcher school?” she said, as he worked.  “Or…whatever?”

</p><p>“This I learned from a sorceress,” he said.  “Long ago.”

</p><p>He worked quickly but carefully, coating all the blisters on that foot.  Once he’d gotten them all, he put down the paper and took up one of the bright green leaves— bruised it a bit with his fingers— and then lay it gently over a few of the sores, covering up the white paste.  He continued until they were all covered up, and then ripped off a length of the muslin.  Wrapped it, criss-cross, all around her foot like an Ace bandage— holding everything in place. 

</p><p>He put that foot down and then lifted the other one up— repeated the entire process on the other foot, while she watched him, silently.  She was trying not to stare, but she couldn’t help it— was finally getting a real look at him, close-up: at his handsome face… so focused, so serious…

</p><p>His eyes, especially, kept drawing her back: their exotic yellow shade… and the freaky-looking pupils, that closed up into slits— not points— in the light of the fire… more like beast, than man…

</p><p>His proximity was making her warm…

</p><p>Or maybe that was the medicine: her skin was already starting to tingle— a bit like a peppermint scrub— in the places he’d applied it.

</p><p>He finished wrapping up her other foot— gently set it down, and then gathered up the materials.  Pushed up and returned to the saddlebags, put everything away.

</p><p>“Thanks,” she said, as she carefully pulled her socks back on, over the wrappings.  “It already feels better.”

</p><p>He didn’t say a word— no acknowledgment— just returned to his spot, sitting on the bare ground across from her.  

</p><p>She took a breath and then spoke again.  “I, um…  I also wanted to say thanks, for… you know.  For sticking up for me back there.  At the bridge.”

</p><p>Still nothing.

</p><p>“Like, you guys totally could have just handed me over like they wanted.  Avoided…  I mean… you could have maybe avoided all of that… drama.”

</p><p>His expression was hard to see clearly in the growing darkness, but what she could make out— if she was reading it correctly— suggested he was offended.

</p><p>As she’d so often done with Bucky, she filled up his silence with her own babbling…

</p><p>“Why did those guys just automatically assume that, anyway?  That I’m… you know.  A whore.  Because I’m <em>not</em>, in case you were wondering… I mean, I already told Jaskier— it’s not that there’s anything…  I mean, I don’t—”  

</p><p>He was just staring at her, there in the dark, and she sighed, feeling stupid.  “Fuck, just forget it.”

</p><p>He was quiet for another minute— seemed to be studying her again.  If she had to guess, she would say his expression had gone from offended, to slightly amused…

</p><p>“You can speak up any time,” she said, a little irritated. “Unless, you know, you’re enjoying it: making me feel like a dumbass.”   
</p><p>She was aware she was projecting— getting out some of her frustration with Bucky, who often made her feel the same way, with his long, drawn-out silences, while she blathered away like an idiot…

</p><p>She saw it then— was sure she wasn’t imagining it: the barest hint of a smile.

</p><p>“It’s your clothing,” he said, finally, and his voice was just a little bit different: softer, maybe… still the same deep rumble, but not as cold.  “Your… shirt,” he added.  “It’s so thin and… useless.”  He tilted his head very slightly, his eyes moving over her upper body in the dark. “You look to be dressed not for travel, but… for bed.”  

</p><p>He paused, and she had the distinct feeling he was giving the rest of her body a good once-over, as well. She wondered how good his night-vision was— if that was one of his enhancements. It made her feel prickly: vulnerable, like he could see inside of her— see all of her secrets.

</p><p>“And your—”  He stopped— cut himself off— and made that humming sound again: “<em>Hmmm</em>…” only this time it didn’t sound disapproving.  More like the opposite…

</p><p>“What,” she said, wary.

</p><p>He opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again— like he’d changed his mind.  Turned his head down and to the side and then shook it, slightly. “Nothing,” he said, and then he pushed himself up. 

</p><p>She was going to interrogate him further: wanted to know exactly what he’d meant by that sound… But then she heard it— what he’d likely picked up, well before she had: the sound of Jaskier, thrashing back through the woods in the dark, finally returning to the campsite.  At least she <em>hoped</em> that was Jaskier…

</p><p>The bard appeared a moment later, panting and sweating from exertion, his arms full of a rough pile of wood— as much as he could carry.  “Hope that’s enough,” he said, as he dumped it on the ground.  “Because I am <em>not</em> going back out there again.”

</p><p>“Are you okay?” asked Darcy, concerned.  “Did you see any…”

</p><p>“Monsters?” he said, pushing the word out between deep breaths.  He sat down heavily on the other bedroll and pulled out a handkerchief— mopped off his sweaty forehead.  Leaned over to grab the waterskin.  “No,” he said, as he uncorked it.  He took a long drink and exhaled loudly. “Though I did see an unpleasantly large snake.  Its body was as big around as one of my arms…”

</p><p>“Ew, no thanks,” said Darcy.

</p><p>Geralt was ignoring both of them—  was already kneeling next to the pile of wood, sorting through it: picking out the pieces with a lot of bark on them.  Once he’d divided it up, he set about stripping off all the bark.

</p><p>He piled the bark into the depression he’d made in the forest floor, and added some more little twigs and dry, dead moss.  And then Darcy watched, fascinated, as he made an odd little sign with his fingers.  This was one different from the pinching sign he’d made on the bridge— his fingers more contorted this time.  After scarcely a second, a small, controlled burst of flame sprang forth from his fingertips, and he directed it toward the pile of tinder, igniting it.

</p><p>“Whoa,” she said, letting out a breath.  “That is so <em>cool</em>…”  

</p><p>He didn’t respond to her words— just made sure the tinder was well and fully lit, and then he set about building up the fire.  Once it was steadily burning, he finished constructing the spit: drove a couple of forked branches into the ground on either side of the fire, for the crochets, and then lay one of the two prepared roasting sticks onto them, so that the meat was centered over the flames.

</p><p>“Can anyone learn that?” she said.  “The magic stuff, I mean; not the… the camping stuff.”
</p><p>He didn’t answer.  Jaskier was uncharacteristically quiet too— worn out from his wood-gathering, apparently.  He was resting his back against a tree, fingers laced together over his chest, his eyes shut…

</p><p>Once again, she filled up the empty space…

</p><p>“I’ve always wanted a super-power.  To be more than just… this.  Boring old me.  Like, if it turns out I’m stuck here, maybe—”

</p><p>Geralt finally looked up— his face expressionless in the flickering light of the campfire.  “You wouldn’t survive the trials,” he said, his voice as flat as ever. He leaned forward and rotated the meat, so that it would brown evenly.  “In any case,” he said, “they aren’t making any more.”

</p><p>“More…”

</p><p>“Witchers.”

</p><p>“Oh,” she said.  She wondered who ‘<em>they</em>’ were, but didn't ask.  He didn’t seem too keen to discuss it.

</p><p>“Geralt’s one of the last of his kind,” murmured Jaskier, without opening his eyes.  “It’s terribly romantic.”

</p><p>She could swear she saw the Witcher roll his eyes at that, and he leaned forward and rotated the spit again, the fire sizzling and spitting from the meat’s drippings, while the air began to fill with the smoky scent of the roasted game…

</p><p>“Speaking of which,” added Jaskier.  He opened his eyes, sat up a little— leaned over to grab his lute. “I should work on the story of the brigands.  It’ll make a good one for the tavern, when we get there.  Something fresh, that the people haven’t heard yet.”

</p><p>“Must you,” said Geralt.

</p><p>Jaskier ignored the insult, and Darcy fell silent, resting her body against the saddle, as she listened to the bard’s quiet voice pick out words and notes.  He strummed the lute gently, accompanying himself while he built up the tale.

</p><p>He was a good storyteller: Darcy enjoyed it immensely, listening to him work up his version of events.  He took great liberties with the details— made everything bigger, louder, more dramatic— and he’d glance naughtily at Geralt with each ludicrous bit of embroidering: as though he were doing it deliberately to get the other man’s goat.  Geralt, for his part, seemed determined not to give him the satisfaction of any obvious reaction…

</p><p>Darcy adjusted herself again, getting more comfortable, and smiled to hear herself included in the tale:  the lovely young maiden from a faraway land, whose honor was saved by the selfless bravery of the White Wolf… the renowned Witcher… the great and valiant Geralt of Rivia…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When she finally slept, utterly exhausted, having gotten her fill of roasted rabbit, she dreamed the story of the song: the tale that Jaskier had woven together.  Relived it again, inside her dream: the flash of the Witcher’s sword, the gory sprays of blood, the bodies falling… the airy wisps of magic that burst from his fingers, pushing the brigands back like paper dolls in a gust of wind…

</p><p>She dreamed, too, of invented pasts— imaginings of the so-called trials he’d barely mentioned… the unknowns he’d suffered to be made into the not-quite-human creature he was… trials no typical human could survive…

</p><p>And then the visions blended into more modern torments, and a different man… and Darcy tried to hide her eyes in the dream— to stop up her ears to the screams, as she was forced to watch, unable to escape the movie theater in her own mind: images thrown up by her brain, taken from the stories she’d heard about Bucky… tortured by the evil servants of Hydra… her man ripped apart and remade as they created their monster: the Winter Soldier… 

</p><p>And then a respite, as she dreamed of a soft, warm bed— her own, back at home— Bucky there in it, whole again: safe, with her, as she sighed in the comfort of his presence…

</p><p>She allowed herself to give into it— free, in the safety of her dream, to indulge it: the truth of how she missed him…

</p><p>She breathed it in, hungry— reveling in his passion as he kissed her, her body rising to press against the slick of his sweaty skin in the dark… begging for his touch once again… longing to feel him inside, her legs opening to let him in…

</p><p>But it wasn’t Bucky’s face gazing down at her as he paused, pulling back to breathe: it was the yellow, wolf-like eyes of the Witcher… 

</p><p>Her eyes fell shut as she felt the weight of his body descend, the drag of his big hands moving on her skin...  
</p><p>One of those hands stroked its way up and down her wide, creamy thigh, and then pressed up on the back of her knee, spreading her out as he pushed himself into her, filling her up— she could both feel and hear that low, rumbling <em>hmmm</em> in the back of his throat as he moved his body against her, and she sighed... floated away, melting in a wash of pleasure…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When she woke in the morning, bleary-eyed, a phantom ache still heavy between her legs, and she remembered what she’d done: whom she’d finally bedded, in that sweaty, shadowy dreamscape— and the last liquid tendrils of a sleepy, heavy arousal twined tickling through her spine, shivering down her legs to the wrappings on her feet, where the Witcher had tended so thoughtfully to her hurts, she didn’t feel bad, didn’t feel sorry.  

</p><p>Didn’t feel guilty at all. 

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never actually ridden a horse before,” said Darcy.  

</p><p>She was standing next to Roach, feeling embarrassed for her lack of experience.  She appreciated the offer— knew that her feet, while feeling better after a night in Geralt’s wrappings, couldn’t handle another long day of walking— but she was just a little bit nervous; had no idea how to get up on the horse, now that it was time to go. 

</p><p>Geralt had offered the mount to her, after their breakfast of rabbit-bone broth and stale bread— and judging by Jaskier’s reaction, it was quite the privilege: not something to take lightly.  Jaskier had literally said, “<em>My my my</em>,” with dramatically widened eyes, as he’d cleaned and dried the soup pot, causing Geralt to flash him a death-glare…

</p><p>Now Darcy was looking dubiously at all the various parts of the saddle, feeling completely overwhelmed— like she was trying to figure out how to fly a fighter jet for the first time.  She knew the foot-thingies were stirrups…

</p><p>“They don’t have horses in New York,” Geralt said, somewhere behind her.  It was a question posed as a statement— typical for him, she was learning.  She turned around to look at him, glad to keep stalling.  

</p><p>He was putting on the rest of his gear— had finished pulling on his leather tunic, and then threaded his big arms through the criss-cross straps of the belted harness that fit over it.  He buckled the belt, and then leaned over to grab his big steel sword.  Reached back to slide it into the back-scabbard attached to the harness, so that the blade lay diagonally across his back. 

</p><p>She was watching him, trying not to drool— the effects of that smutty dream still worming their way around her hungry body.  As far as her subconscious was concerned, she’d gotten laid big-time last night, and the man in question was <em>right there</em>.  It was proving very, very hard to play it cool…

</p><p>Now he was heading toward her, to help her with the horse, and she turned away for a second, mortified as she felt the blush flooding her face: it was like she was thirteen years old, crushing on some older, out-of-her-league hottie…

</p><p>“They do,” she said, finally answering his question. “But they’re only for like… rides around the park, or… I don’t know, I think the cops still have some?”

</p><p>She glanced at Jaskier: sure the bard could see right through her— that he was snickering at her juvenile attempts to conceal her attraction.  Sure enough, he wagged his eyebrows at her comically before turning around to finish packing up the campsite. 

</p><p>“Cops,” said Geralt, repeating the unfamiliar word, either uncaring, or oblivious to, the back-and-forth between her and Jaskier. He pointed to the stirrup, indicating that she should go ahead and put her foot in it, so she did.

</p><p>“I, uh… I’ve <em>seen</em> this done,” she said, feeling colossally stupid.  “Like… on TV, but—”  

</p><p>She bounced a couple of times on her right foot, her hands grasping the fittings of the saddle in front of her, sure she was going to made a fool of herself.  Finally, she committed: pushed up, as hard as she could, and as soon as she did so, she felt Geralt’s big hand come up and press under her left thigh— and <em>guhhh</em>, if that didn’t take her right back to the dream… 

</p><p>He kept his hand there, holding firm, as she used her momentum to swing all the way up and over— dropped it as soon as she was up, and then watched her settle herself into the saddle. 

</p><p>“Good?” he said.

</p><p>She bit her lip as she peered down at his handsome face, which was gazing up at her expectantly.  <em>So good</em>, her mind said, as she found herself at a loss for actual words.  He looked like a fricking movie star. She was staring at his lips… at that perfect butt-chin.  It was weird, to be taller than him, but the view sure was nice…

</p><p>He was waiting— and she almost laughed, because she was acting like such an idiot: struck dumb by a pretty face.  “Yeah,” she finally said. “I’m good.”

</p><p>He was already turning away— satisfied, in spite of her weird behavior— but she stopped him: “Wait…”

</p><p>She lifted her butt just enough to dig her phone out of her pocket— it was digging into her thigh painfully, with her legs now spread wide around the saddle.

</p><p>“Can you put this somewhere safe?” she said, as she leaned down to hand it over to him. “I don’t want to lose it.”

</p><p>He nodded— looked at the phone curiously, but didn’t ask any questions: simply stowed it carefully in one of the saddlebags.

</p><p>“God, I feel like I’m up way too high,” said Darcy uneasily, as Roach stepped once, twice, sideways and back— adjusting her stance as Geralt finished up with the saddlebag.  It was just a small movement— they weren’t even walking yet— but Darcy already felt like she was in constant danger of tipping over.  The horse seemed a hundred times bigger— huge, and powerful— now that she was up there.

</p><p>“You’ll be fine,” said Geralt.  He gathered up the reins, and passed them over to Darcy; she heard him whisper to Roach, as he patted her mane affectionately:  “<em>Be good</em>.”

</p><p>“Don’t see why you never let <em>me</em> ride her,” muttered Jaskier.  He’d finished packing up the rest of the stuff, and was shouldering both his own bag and his lute.

</p><p>“What are… cops,” said Geralt, going back to the other topic— ignoring Jaskier entirely.

</p><p>Roach stamped one of her hooves lightly, almost like she knew Darcy wasn’t paying attention.

</p><p>“Cops,” she said, trying to speak normally, like she wasn’t a bundle of nerves.  “Police?”  

</p><p>She looked down to Jaskier, who shook his head— didn’t know the word— so she tried to think of what they’d call it on Earth, in medieval times. 

</p><p>“Uh… sheriff’s department?  Peacekeepers?  Like… the guys who arrest you if you break the law.”  After a pause, she added, “But not the military.”

</p><p>“Your land… has organized groups of these men,” said Geralt.

</p><p>“And women,” she said.

</p><p>“And they have horses?” said Geralt.  He made a little clicking sound to Roach, who began to step forward, walking easily. Darcy tried to hold the reins loosely, even as she white-knuckled the horn of the saddle.

</p><p>“No,” she said.  “I mean, only a few of them.  They drive cars, or—”  She stopped, realizing none of it would make sense. “Fuck, it’s too hard to explain.  It’s really different there.”  She tried to think of what she <em>could</em> say, that wouldn’t be too weird. 
 
</p><p>“It’s a city,” she said.  “A big city— one of the biggest in the world.  Nothing but roads and tall buildings, as far as the eye can see. Restaurants, and bars, and businesses… noisy and busy.  People everywhere. Millions of them. Like, literally.”

</p><p>“Sounds fantastic,” said Jaskier.

</p><p>“Sounds terrible,” said Geralt, flatly.

</p><p>“It’s not all bad,” she said, as her mind lingered there— in a vision of Manhattan, and all its conveniences.  She had anything she could possibly need: if not on-site, at Stark Tower, then just a short walk or subway-ride away.  And not only that, but access to world-class theaters, museums… some of the best food in the world…  

</p><p>Not that she ever actually availed herself of any of that.  She and Bucky mostly just—

</p><p>Ugh.  <em>Bucky</em>.  

</p><p>She hadn’t thought of him since waking from that dream.  She wondered what he was doing.  Probably fucking the Black Widow in some crazy, Cirque-du-Soleil-worthy position that required incredible agility and muscle control… 

</p><p>“Well, not to worry,” said Jaskier brightly, interrupting her thoughts.  “If that little bottle managed to get you here, I wager it’ll be able to get you back, somehow.”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said softly, even as her thoughts wryly said, <em>Back to what? Heartbreak?  A dead-end job?</em>  Maybe she shouldn’t be in such a hurry to return, even with all those conveniences she was missing.  

</p><p>Still, from what little she’d seen of this world— or heard about, through Jaskier’s tales— it was a violent one: full of rough people, scary monsters.  Tyrannical rulers… vengeful magic-users.  She’d been here for fewer than twenty-four hours, and she’d already been threatened with violence— had seen death… and based on Jaskier’s nonchalance about it, the events hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary.

</p><p>Her real life was an emotional mess, sure— but, in recent years, discounting the drama with Bucky, it’d actually been pretty stable. Boring, even.  And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.  Maybe boring was good.  Something to be appreciated.

</p><p>She felt like everything was uncertain— up in the air.  Like she didn’t even know what she wanted.  

</p><p>
  <em>Or</em>, she thought, as she stared at Geralt’s leather-clad torso, ahead of her on the trail… let her eyes trail down his strong back to the curve of his ass… <em>who</em>.


</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was a very long day in the saddle.

</p><p>She’d hoped they would stop for some kind of lunch, eventually— her stomach was now in a full-on sulk over the drastic decrease in calories it’d been getting since her arrival— but Geralt had made it clear that they were pressing forward. They ate while they walked: or, in her case, rode— Jaskier handing more of that stale bread from breakfast up to her, which she washed down with a swig of warm water from the waterskin.

</p><p>“Do they have, like… <em>real</em> food in this city we’re headed to?” she asked, as she passed the waterskin back down to him, and then she quickly qualified her remark: “Not that I’m complaining about— I mean, I’m grateful, really.  For all of it.  I probably would have passed out by now, or died from poison, if I’d had to fend for myself.”

</p><p>“The tavern’ll have good things to eat,” said Jaskier.  “A nice hot stew, if we’re lucky.”  And then he grinned and raised his voice:  “Plenty of beer, bread and women,” he said lavishly, and then it was his turn to backpedal: “I mean, if you— if <em>one</em> should wish to—”

</p><p>He swung his lute around and began to play, as if to cover his crude remark, even though Darcy wasn’t offended at all.  Still, she let it pass, as he seemed to wish, and just listened to his signing and playing. He’d almost perfected his bridge song now— had been working on it for most of the morning and afternoon.  She’d enjoyed the process: hearing how it gradually came together— even gave him her opinion here or there, when he asked.  He seemed pleased to get some genuine feedback, and he told her as much.

</p><p>“What about Geralt?” she teased. “No feedback from him?”

</p><p>“Only if I’m in the mood for insults,” said Jaskier.  “If he says anything at all, he just apprises me of my many inaccuracies.”  He raised his voice then, so it would carry ahead to the man in question: “Failing to understand the point of a tale has little to do with <em>realism</em> and <em>everything</em> to do with <em>drama</em>…”

</p><p>“He has wounded my pride, to be sure,” he added, dropping back to a conversational volume, though he’d added some put-on woefulness.  “He at one time compared my songwriting to—” He pitched his voice high again, to be heard: “What was it?  A— a ‘<em>pie with no filling</em>’?”

</p><p>Darcy gasped in feigned shock, even as she wanted to laugh, because she would give anything to hear Geralt say something like that...  “No! What?" she said. "That’s terrible...”

</p><p>Geralt surprised her when he actually responded— she didn’t think he’d even been listening.  He turned his head back slightly as he walked, his deep voice carried back to her on the breeze.  “I was tired,” he said.  “Hadn’t slept in a week.  I wasn’t in the mood for… holding hands.”

</p><p>“That was the day we found the genie,” said Jaskier. He dropped his voice.  “And Geralt met… <em>her</em>.  Gods, what a horrible day.  And night.  Though she did have quite a nice bed, all things considered—”

</p><p>“You mean— Yennefer?” she said, trying to keep her own voice low.  

</p><p>Geralt had quickened his step slightly— opting out of the conversation again, apparently.  Roach sped up too, trying to match his pace, but Darcy pulled back on the reins a little, slowing her down to stay by Jaskier, who was still walking alongside the horse, strumming his lute thoughtfully.

</p><p>“What’s the big deal with them, anyway,” she said, almost whispering.

</p><p>“Idiots in love,” said Jaskier automatically, and then he sighed sadly.  

</p><p>“But they’re— they don’t— they’re not still—”

</p><p>“A dragon told him he would lose her,” said Jaskier. “Though they— according to the dragon— were perfect for one another.”  He raised his eyebrows, clarifying: “<em>His</em> opinion, not mine.”  He strummed the lute again.  “It was quite the blow.  He was very cruel after that… but I forgave him, of course.”

</p><p>“Wait,” said Darcy.  “Go back— a <em>dragon?</em> Are you for real?”

</p><p>“Well,” said Jaskier, “to be accurate, he was a man again at that point.  Don’t really know how he does it.  Some kind of shape-shifty, polymorhpy-magic kind of thing…”

</p><p>“Okay,” she said, just trying to accept the information. “But why does that guy— the dragon, or whatever— why does he have a say?  Is he like… an oracle or something?”

</p><p>“Beats me,” said Jaskier.  “But Geralt and Yennefer were both as touchy as I’ve ever seen them in the wake of his prediction.”  He raised his eyebrows dramatically again. “And that’s saying a lot…”

</p><p>“Huh,” she said.  She looked again at Geralt’s back, up ahead.  With the exception of the battle on the bridge, and even for most of that, the man seemed decidedly stoic— controlled.  It was hard to imagine him being upset about a love affair ending poorly... “Sounds sad.”

</p><p>Jaskier made a scoffing sound.  “Sad, maybe. But for the best, really.  That woman was— she was…”  He couldn’t seem to find the right word— just strummed another chord on his lute, instead.

</p><p>“You don’t like her,” said Darcy.  “How come?”

</p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth to say something, and then seemed to think better of it.  Finally he simply said, “He’s better off without her.”
 
</p><p>“Yeah,” said Darcy, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I can tell:  he seems really 
happy.”

</p><p>Jaskier tilted his head— an acknowledgment of her sentiment.  “The dragon put it as… saving them a lot of hurt, with a little bit of pain, now.”

</p><p>And for some reason that made her think of Bucky, standing there in her apartment.  Lying to her: telling her it wasn’t over— telling her it was just a break… maybe to soften the blow.  She tried to imagine what it would have been like if he’d just cut to the chase: told her he was done with her— that he wanted someone else.  It made her want to puke, just thinking about it.

</p><p>As much as she’d hated the way it’d played out, the alternative would have been so much more devastating…

</p><p>“Does that ever really work?” she said.  “Maybe…”  
</p><p>She stopped mid-thought— didn’t know what she was trying to say, not really…  
</p><p>“Maybe it’s better not to be saved," she finally said. "When it’s gonna hurt so bad anyway.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They crossed two more bridges— thankfully these had no brigands or trolls guarding them— and by mid-afternoon, she was starting to see the landscape change: trees thinning and changing… the forest floor growing ever-more soggy and damp.  Patches of standing water began to appear, and she knew they were entering the swamp.  She glanced uneasily from side-to-side— keeping her eyes out for any sign of swamp-creatures lurking in the shadowy distance, as Roach stepped carefully along the trail, tirelessly following Geralt.

</p><p>She’d gotten pretty comfortable, over the many hours, with steering and braking the horse, but her ass was killing her.  She was surprisingly exhausted: riding, even at this leisurely pace, was far more physically demanding than she ever would have guessed.  

</p><p>An hour or so into the swampy territory, she was almost being lulled to sleep— her head nodding forward and then jerking back up, as she struggled to stay awake… hypnotized by the monotony of the journey, and the gentle sound of Jaskier’s voice below…

</p><p>And then, abruptly, his gentle singing stopped; her head snapped up again, as she heard him call out to the man ahead of them:  “Geralt? We should stop.”

</p><p>“Not a good idea,” came the deep, rumbling voice.  He hadn’t bothered to slow, or turn around as he spoke, and Jaskier quickly jogged up to join him; Darcy could still hear his voice as he beseeched the other man.

</p><p>“What is it, another two hours yet to town?” he said. “Three?”  When there was no response, he continued, glancing back to Darcy, just as her body swayed a little in the saddle:  “Look at her,” he said. “She’s practically falling over— she’ll never make it.  Surely we can at least take a break, or—”

</p><p>“We’re not stopping in the swamp,” said Geralt, his voice firm.

</p><p>“I— I can make it,” she said feebly, and then she yawned a huge, ugly yawn. She didn’t want to admit it— didn’t want to piss anyone off— but Jaskier was probably right: she wasn’t going to make it another thirty minutes, much less two or three <em>hours</em>.

</p><p>“I don’t see what the big deal is,” said Jaskier.  “We haven’t seen another living creature all day, except for these <em>accursed</em>—" and there he stopped, to swat at them— "flies. And the campfire will take care of those.”

</p><p>Geralt hadn’t said another word, and the bard pressed his point again.  “You know I want to reach the town as much you do— more, even.  But she’s going to fall off.  Break her neck.  Is that what you want?”

</p><p>Geralt finally stopped.  Stood still for a moment, his back still to her, as Roach continued to walk, bringing her closer.  She could hear his long sigh and then he turned, his lips pressed together, annoyed.  

</p><p>“Fine,” he said, to Jaskier, who was already grinning in victory— Darcy figured the young man was probably looking forward to a nice nap.  His cheerful face fell as Geralt continued his grumpy speech: “But not until we reach fresh water.  And you’re getting the firewood again.  And I don’t want to hear any complaints about the food.  It won’t be rabbit tonight— maybe one of those snakes you saw last night… if we’re lucky.”

</p><p>He turned around and took up walking again, and Darcy stifled a laugh at the mimicking “<em>blah blah blah</em>” faces Jaskier aimed at the man’s back…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“This is a bad idea,”  said Geralt, as he helped Darcy get down from the horse.

</p><p>“So you keep reminding us,” said Jaskier, who was leaning his lute against a tree.

</p><p>Geralt’s big hands were supporting Darcy under her arms, and she slid down the front of his body, as he carefully lowered her back onto solid ground.  He was warm and strong, and she found herself enjoying the brief contact, in spite of his stink— which, though pungent, had an undeniably appealing underlayer of <em>hard-working man</em>: it was a little embarrassing, how instinctively some base, beasty part of her was responding to it… 

</p><p>He was already turning away, apparently oblivious to the effect he had on her— busying himself with the saddlebags and other equipment needed to set up camp.  He tossed the two woolen bedrolls to Jaskier, almost hitting the bard in the face, which didn’t seem to be accidental…

</p><p>Jaskier didn’t even flinch— just caught them and then crouched down to roll them out on the nice bit of dry land they’d selected, near a decent-sized lake: maybe even suitable for swimming, if it wasn’t too slimy.  Geralt had chosen it for the pretty little waterfall found at one end— a place to refill the waterskin.  

</p><p>Darcy hoped it was spring-fed; had been trying not to think too hard about all the alien microbes— parasites, bacteria— she was probably ingesting with every single drink.  She tried to console herself with the fact that Jaskier, who drank from the waterskin as much as she did, seemed perfectly healthy— wasn’t constantly running off to shit in the woods… 

</p><p>“Well,” said Jaskier, as he stood up, brushing his hands against his trousers.  “I suppose I’m off to gather wood, then.”  Darcy watched as he swiveled around to address Geralt, who was busy undoing the saddle-straps.  “You’ll come save me if I scream, won’t you?” he said, as he gave Geralt a dazzling smile— practically batting his eyelashes at him.

</p><p>“I’ll consider it,” said the other man dryly, as he finished uncinching the saddle, and lifted it off.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Fuck, I’m tired,” said Darcy.  She was stretching her legs out on the bedroll, trying to find a position that eased the strain on her aching butt-muscles.  “Who knew riding a horse was so exhausting?  I bet my entire ass is black-and-blue— and she wasn’t even trotting.”

</p><p>“How are your feet?” said Geralt. 

</p><p>He’d removed his own footwear— his high, leather boots— along with his leather tunic, looking more relaxed in the looser, black woven chemise he wore underneath, and was busying himself now with a proper clean and polish of his big steel sword, even though he hadn’t killed anyone with it that day…

</p><p>Darcy had noticed that he had another sword— maybe a backup: kept it wrapped up neatly in an oiled cloth, tied to the back of the saddle.  He’d untied it both times they’d made camp; kept it— still wrapped up—  within arm’s reach, next to the other one.

</p><p>“My feet are great,” she said.  “Like I said: now it’s my ass that’s hurting.  Don’t suppose you got any special medicine for that?”  

</p><p>She was being a little sassy: enjoying the image of Geralt massaging some kind of soothing, medicinal balm into the skin of her sore bottom, as she lay naked on her stomach— preferably in a place with a bit more privacy and comfort than the middle of a fricking swamp.  Her current fantasy involved flickering candlelight and soft furs…

</p><p>“There’s a bathhouse in the city,” he replied, inadvertently fueling her active imagination with another smutty possibility…

</p><p>“Mmm,” she hummed, as her eyes fell half-shut, picturing it. “A bath would be amazing.  I wish we were there now…”  Her eyes popped open again— realized she’d said the ‘<em>we</em>’ part out loud— and glanced at him, hoping he hadn’t clued into her sleazy thoughts.  He was still just sitting there, completely absorbed by his work.
  
</p><p>She changed the subject, in any case: “Are we really gonna eat snake? Or were you just fucking with Jaskier?  I mean, I’m not gonna complain; I’ll eat anything you give me.”

</p><p>He didn’t give her a real answer— just a shorter version of one of those “<em>hm</em>,” sounds, which she supposed was better than nothing. 

</p><p>She watched him for a minute as he worked there quietly, in the dappled light of the sun, which was just starting to get lower in the sky.  Studied the wolf’s-head medallion on his shiny silver necklace, which was resting against the black, folded-back placket of his chemise.  The shirt was unbuttoned down to his sternum, revealing a patch of bare skin, lightly brushed with hair… it wasn’t grey-white, like the hair on his head, but slightly darker, and she wondered at the discrepancy…

</p><p>She blinked— realized she’d been openly staring again, for an unknown number of minutes— forced herself to look away…  

</p><p>She kept feeling as though she were leering at him: like a lecherous man, staring at a woman’s cleavage, or the curves of her ass…  The way she was acting, one would think it’d been years— not mere days— since she’d touched a living, breathing man…

</p><p>She needed something to do— other than drool over the pretty, broody man— while they waited for Jaskier to return.  She wished she could use her phone.  She’d gotten so accustomed to using it as a crutch, back in New York: whipping it out whenever she needed to kill some time.  

</p><p>She shuffled over to the saddlebags on her knees, and dug it out anyway.  He’d tucked it safely in there, alongside the little amphora, which was wrapped up in some spare cloth to cushion it.  She unwrapped the amphora for a second, just to check on it:  it was still inert, dead— no scattering of magical lights.

</p><p>She wrapped the little vessel back up— nestled it carefully back into the bag, and then went back to her bedroll with her phone, leaning against the saddle with a sigh.  Powered on the phone and waited for it to boot up.  She knew it was dumb to keep turning it on and off: a useless waste of its remaining battery life.  But it was her only tangible connection to her own reality— the only reminder that it all really existed.  Was maybe still there— somewhere, or some-<em>when</em>…

</p><p>She only kept the phone on for a minute— automatically checked the internet connection, which was silly: of course there was still no service.  She bit her lip, considering.  Muted the phone, so it wouldn’t make a noise, and opened up the camera app— took a quick, covert picture of Geralt, working on his sword.  Checked the picture: it’d turned out nice, in spite of the decreasing sunlight— and then she powered off the phone again, and set it down on the bedroll.  

</p><p>When she looked up again, Geralt was staring straight at her, his sword resting horizontally across his lap.

</p><p>“What is that thing?” he said.  “I saw you… use it.  Yesterday.  When you first came across us, in the wood.”

</p><p>“Um…” She picked it up, and looked at it— turned it over in her hands.  She didn’t really know how to explain it to him.

</p><p>“Is it a weapon?” he said, and she could feel the caution there: not entirely trusting her; not yet. “Some kind of magic?”

</p><p>“No,” she said, aware that her answer sounded hesitant— as though she weren’t being entirely truthful.   “It, uh… where I’m from, it lets me talk to people.  Even if we’re far away.  It’s not magic, though.  It’s just… I dunno.  Science.  Technology.”

</p><p>“It doesn’t work here?” he said.  “You can’t… speak to your people.”

</p><p>“No,” she said, and she put it down again, sighing.  “The stuff that lets it work doesn’t exist here.”

</p><p>“Hm,” he said, with a little nod.  He pushed up then, and went over to the big tree where all the gear was laid in a pile; wrapped the cleaned and polished sword in a long piece of plain cloth, and lay it down next to the other one.

</p><p>“What’s the other sword for?” she asked, curious.  “In case someone else needs to fight?”

</p><p>“No,” he said.  “It’s silver.  Plated. Some monsters… have a sensitivity…”

</p><p>“God,” she murmured.  “It really is like a video game…” 

</p><p>“A—”

</p><p>Whatever he’d been about to ask was cut off as his head darted to the side, and his entire body tensed, instantly alert— like a sniffer dog, hitting on something— and then she could see him literally do just that: sniffing the air deeply, as he pushed up to standing again…

</p><p>“What is it?” she said, as she sat up— her own body tensing up, from the way he was acting. “More brigands?”

</p><p>He didn’t answer— just turned his head again, his yellow eyes darting around as he angled his ear toward the wood.  He seemed to be listening for something…

</p><p>She resisted the urge to ask more questions, as he remained in that position— frozen— for another four or five seconds… and then at all once he was moving swiftly, with purpose— going for the sword— not the one he’d just cleaned, but the other one: the silver one.  He pulled it out of its wrappings, revealing a long, shining blade, with an elegant, V-shaped crossguard.  It was as fierce-looking as it was beautiful— gleaming in the little sunlight that still remained…

</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, scrambling quickly to her feet— recognizing the significance of his choice.  “What about Jas—”

</p><p>Before she could get out another sound, he was behind her, his left hand clapping over her mouth as he hissed a stern command in her ear: “Be <em>silent</em>.”

</p><p>She could actually hear him this time— feel it, too— when he pulled in another deep breath of the air, and then he let it out: let go of her mouth, stepping quietly around to face her, his finger moving to his lips in what was apparently the universal symbol for <em>don’t make a fucking sound</em>…

</p><p>She nodded to him, every cell feeling like fire as the fear began to leak all through her body, and then he suddenly wheeled around, and she saw it: a big, ugly, unbelievable-looking thing— some kind of huge, two-legged blob, coming toward them around the edge of the lake…

</p><p>It was enormous… blue-green and wormlike, slimy-looking and segmented around its trunk, but with some kind of arms and legs… but in place of a head was a tube-like cylinder— floppy— with an opening at the end of it: round and lined with nasty looking teeth, almost like a lamprey.  At the ends of its arms were long, pale, sharp-looking claws, which were already slashing out in their direction…  

</p><p>It was lumbering toward them, making a weird, squishy sort of sound, and she shrieked as she scrambled backwards, unsure if she should run, or— 

</p><p>“<em>Run</em>,” said Geralt a split-second later, growling it out with a dark urgency— settling the matter.  He lifted his left hand, preparing one of his spells… 

</p><p>She didn’t argue— turned to flee, when she stuttered instantly to a stop, seeing that another one of those things was coming toward them from the other direction, caging them in…

</p><p>“Geralt?” she said, her voice laced with raw fear.

</p><p>He whipped his head around— saw the other one coming up: fast, for such an ungainly creature— and he swore: a vehement “<em>Fuck!</em>” which she soundly echoed in her own head… 

</p><p>The first one was almost upon them already, and he turned again, bent down and seemed to trace some kind of symbol on the ground and then stepped back, away from the spot, as a purplish glow arose in a circle around the marking— maybe a dozen feet in radius from it, all around.  The first creature slogged into the spot and then slowed, clearly taking some kind of damage from having stepped inside its boundaries, and for a second she felt a flicker of relief…

</p><p>And then it pressed forward: still coming at them— and they both spun around, tracking the progress of the second one: almost upon them now…

</p><p>Geralt made another sign with his hand: the same one he’d used to light the campfire the night before— only this time, he released a huge, blasting gale of flame, and Darcy instinctively stumbled back, away from it, even as she tried to keep near him, knowing he was her only chance against… whatever these things were…

</p><p>He kept up the burst of fire for a few seconds— pushing the first creature back as it let out a grotesque howl, the flames finally taking it— and then he whirled around, gasping… ready to deal with the other one, which was still coming up, too fast…

</p><p>“Stay back,” he warned, as he faced off against it—  his expression becoming a ferocious snarl, teeth gritted together: preparing to swing the silver sword…  “When it comes apart, it’ll—”

</p><p>“Look out!” she yelled, cutting him off, as a third one appeared out of nowhere— from the woods behind them— and it was swinging one of its clawed limbs straight at Geralt’s head…

</p><p>He ducked, evading the attack neatly, and then swung the sword— sliced off the end of a limb— and then he ducked again, barely avoiding the spray of viscous ooze that erupted from the open wound, sounding like a bubbling burp of tar… 
He struck again immediately, this time slashing through its midsection viciously, and followed up with another blast of flame, first at the injured one, and then pivoting to drive back the second one, which was now upon them…

</p><p>The first one had finally recovered from the initial flame attack— at least enough to come at them again— and was pressing its way through the magical trap, trying to join the fight.  Geralt wheeled around once again, narrowly avoiding another slash of claws, and then, after a stunning display of swordwork, there was a violent spurt of guts and fluids as the injured creature came apart, Geralt rolling to the side to avoid being sprayed by the explosion of insides…

</p><p>“<em>Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck</em>…” Darcy was pushing out the words like a mantra— the only thing keeping her from a complete panic, as she bent down to grab the steel sword that was still resting on the ground, near the tree.  Everything in her was shaking, as she tried to lift up the enormous weapon.  She had no idea how to use a sword, but it was worth a shot: better than dying without a fight…

</p><p>Geralt was moving like a dancer— striking, ducking, spinning— dealing with the remaining two monsters, both of them coming at him, their disgusting worm-like mouths heaving.  He seemed to be trying to maneuver them so that they were both faced off against him from the same direction— maybe to blast them together with another burst of fire…

</p><p>Darcy was dragging the sword along, still struggling to lift it, but it was quickly apparent that it was pointless: the thing was huge, and heavy as fuck— she could barely lift it to knee-height without feeling the strain on her muscles.  She dropped it, realizing it’d only be a hindrance— that she’d be better off just running away… if there weren’t more of them waiting out there, in the shadows of the swamp: the idea of which was about as terrifying as staying put. 

</p><p>At least here, with Geralt, she had a chance…  but she didn’t know what to do: how to help him, or whether she should just stay back, out of the range of that incredible sword…

</p><p>“Stay back!” he shouted— as though he could read her mind— and she scrambled back a few more feet… watched as he ducked and slashed, struck out with blinding speed, a master with his blade.  The silver sliced through another wormy limb, and then he quickly followed through: made his fire sign once again, with a vicious kind of focus— let loose another volley of flame from his fingers, engulfing both of the monsters at once.

</p><p>He kept it up— unrelenting— the strain of it apparent on his face, for a full five seconds— and then he collapsed to his knees, just as both of the monsters exploded, splattering the entire area, including Geralt and Darcy, with a blanket of noxious slime…

</p><p>She felt it within seconds: the fire, the burning— and at first, she thought somehow it was Geralt’s magic, engulfing them… or that maybe his flames had boiled the creatures’ insides, and now she was going to get cooked by it…

</p><p>“I’m burning!” she screamed, and then she felt his arms lifting her up, jostling her body roughly in his arms as he ran— the burning intensifying— and then he was hurling her into the lake with all his strength, and then she was under— plunged into the merciful cool of the murky lake water…

</p><p>She burst up out of it two seconds later— gasping— the shock of it, unprepared for it, making her feel she was choking, drowning, and she could still feel it: the burning…

</p><p>She looked down, checking her body— realized her clothing was disintegrating away, right in front of her eyes: the slime some kind of fast-working acid.  “What the— what the <em>fuck!</em>” she screamed, and she dunked down into the water again, terrified that her skin was next…

</p><p>She stayed underwater longer this time, eyes screwed shut, until she was bursting from the need to breathe, and then she surfaced with another violent gasp.  The burning had finally stopped— her skin was slightly pink all over, like a mild sunburn, but whatever had caused the damage seemed to have finally been neutralized by the lake water. The same couldn’t be said for her clothes, unfortunately, and she sputtered in shock as she realized that she was basically naked, there in the water…

</p><p>She whirled around, looking for Geralt…

</p><p>There was no sign of the man— the lake motionless around her— and for a second she was actually afraid for him: terrified that the creatures had come back to life— had gotten him somehow, after he’d thrown her in…

</p><p>And then all at once, she saw him: coming up for air with a splash, a few yards away…

</p><p>“Hey!” she yelled— feeling furious, now that she knew they were both okay— like a parent, scolding a child who’d wandered off at a park… the need to put that fear somewhere, temporarily overriding the relief…

</p><p>She was trying to push away the shock: the reality of what had just happened. The intensity of the attack— how quickly it’d escalated to a fight for their lives… and the truth that Geralt, for all his incredible strength and skill, had only barely managed to get them out alive…

</p><p>And then there was the fact that she was now buck-ass nude, in the middle of nowhere, the monster guts having apparently burned all of her clothing away.  All that was left was a single, navy-blue bra strap, clinging to her left shoulder.  She brushed it off— shivering away from it, like it was a spider tickling her skin— afraid that even that little scrap of fabric could still have some of the toxic goo sticking to it… 

</p><p>Even her shoes had dissolved: she could feel the rubber sole of one them, bent sideways under her left foot, on the muddy floor of the lake, but the canvas uppers had vanished…

</p><p>She was breathing heavily— trying to tamp down on the delayed panic, and the vulnerability of being naked— as she watched Geralt make his way toward her, through the water.  She could see that his clothes were gone too— at least what she could see, up top.  All that remained, from the waist up, was the medallion necklace, which lay shiny— intact— against his broad, bare chest, which she was trying really hard not to stare at: dude was as stacked as Thor... 

</p><p>“Fuck,” she murmured, and she dipped down— felt her legs with her hands, under the water— confirmed that there was really nothing left down there: no jeans, no underwear…  

</p><p>And then she cursed again, when she realized: “Aw, <em>shit</em>: my coins…”  All the money that Jaskier had given to her— the gold and silver he’d shared with her— had been lost when her jeans dissolved, the coins now buried somewhere in the cold mud, at the bottom of the lake.  

</p><p>At least her phone was safe— hadn’t been in her pocket, where it normally lived.  It should be fine— still resting on the bedroll somewhere.  She just hoped it hadn't been splattered with acid-guts…

</p><p>Geralt was close now: only an arm’s length away. His hair was slicked back from his face, which was dotted with little drops of water, and he wore an expression of open concern.  She could see his eyes moving over the exposed parts of her body: her face, her neck, her bare shoulders.

</p><p>“Your skin,” he said.  “Are you hurt?”

</p><p>“Dude, what the <em>fuck!</em>” she said, and she backed away from him a little, the murky brown water swirling around her shoulders.

</p><p>“You’re okay,” he said, and she could hear the relief in his voice.
  
</p><p>“My fucking clothes are gone!” she said, trying to hang onto her sense of outrage.

</p><p>One side of his mouth pulled up as his eyes softened.  “I’m aware.” 

</p><p>“Oh, you think this is funny?” she said, and she backed away a little more, her eyes moving over what she could see of his body. His skin wasn’t reddened, like hers— he probably had some kind of super-skin, some Witcher resilience…

</p><p>“We almost got killed by those… those… what the fuck <em>were</em> those things?”

</p><p>“Bloedzuigers,” he said, and he exhaled, acknowledging her assertion.  “Nasty.  Could have been much worse.”  He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head a little, like he was speaking a truth:  “We were lucky.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Lucky!”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Yes,” he said. “Their insides are highly acidic.  Had you been any closer…” And then he smirked a little. “I told you, your garments weren’t suitable for travel.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Oh yeah?” she said, and she was trying <em>really</em> hard not to stare at his impressive man-boobs, but it was almost impossible, because they were <em>right there</em>...

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Looks like you’re not much better off, hot-stuff,” she snapped.  “How’d your pants do?”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He looked down, though neither of them could see below the surface of the water.  “Better than yours, I’ll wager,” he said.  “The leather is more… resistant.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Uh huh,” she said, and her heart was pounding, because he was stepping closer…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Is this your game, then?” she said. “Get girls naked in swamps?”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Not usually,” he said, and that humor was back in his eyes, just for a second.  And then he dropped it— was serious, for a moment: “Are you sure you’re all right?  Your skin…”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said, and she lifted her arm to look at the color, which already seemed to be fading.  And then her legs suddenly felt weak— like Jello— and she shivered a little… some kind of delayed response to the danger… realizing what would have happened, if Geralt hadn’t moved so quickly— hadn’t thrown her into the lake right away…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Did I seriously almost just buy the farm?” she said quietly, and there was a quiver in her voice. “Right here?  In some fucking swamp in another universe?” She looked down for a second, stared at her own hand as she flexed her fingers. “God,” she said.  “Nobody would have ever known what happened to me…”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>She looked up at him again, and her heart was pounding even harder— either from the useless adrenaline rush, or maybe from the realization that he’d just saved her life— again.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I would have known,” he said, and there was a quiet sincerity in his voice that made her stomach flip, just a little...  His hand lifted out of the water— reached out toward her hair… drew something out of it: some piece of lake slime, or maybe it was a remnant of her shirt…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>She saw his eyes move down, and she followed them… realized that the tips of her nipples were peeking out of the water: that he was taking a look— not even bothering to hide it— and she dipped down a little as her lips parted, her eyes on his face…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He hid another smile... changed the subject: “What did you think you were going to do with that sword?”  His voice was soft… low… just for her, as he moved in even closer.  It was like a physical force of its own, that voice, and she couldn’t tell if he was toying with her…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I dunno,” she said, holding his gaze.  “I guess I wasn’t about to go down without a fight, or something stupid like that.”  She licked her lips— saw his eyes drop down, following the movement.  “Why, are you mad?”  She felt like she was the one playing, now… “Mad that I touched your stuff?”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“It's the wrong size for you,” he said, and he was almost brushing up against her now— was close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath on her face. “You’re small,” he said.  “A dagger would suit you better.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, and her voice was trembling, even as she tried to keep it steady— to be cool.  “You got one of those?  One I can use?”  She felt like she was babbling— delaying whatever it was that was happening, while she tried to understand why she needed it, so badly…  “A dagger?”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Maybe,” he said, and then his hand was in her hair again, but this time there wasn’t anything he was pulling out of it— no excuse— he was just touching her, for the sake of touching her, and she felt a shiver pass through her again: this time for a different reason… and she wished that they were doing this somewhere else… somewhere warmer, safer… more private…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>She realized what she was going to do, in spite of all that— that she was gonna go for it: to reach for him, under the water… see if he was fibbing, about those pants… find out what kind of dagger they were talking about…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And then there was the sound of something coming through the woods, quickly— making a lot of noise— and she whirled around instinctively, afraid it was another one of those things, coming to get them, and she was backing up into the safety of Geralt’s body before she could think twice about it: uncaring that she was now pressing her naked ass against him…  

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>She could also now tell that he hadn’t been lying: his pants seemed to be intact under there, the asshole…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Is it another one of those— whatevers?” she said worriedly, and she didn’t mind it at all, when one of his big arms came around her protectively, wrapping around her upper chest…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“No,” he said, and now she could feel it: that deep liquid voice, rumbling against her back— feel and hear it at the same time, just like in her dream…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And then she heard it— the sound of another male voice, this one pitched higher… worried… coming through the trees…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Geralt?  Darcy!”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>It was Jaskier, finally back from his firewood expedition.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He came stumbling into the campsite, and when he saw the state of things: saw them there, together— in some kind of aborted embrace, naked in the lake— he dumped his armful of wood, not bothering to rein in his outrage.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” he burst out, as he gestured toward them.  “Well, that’s just <em>great</em>.  I'm the idiot, right?”  He put on mocking tone, then: “<em>Go get wood, Jaskier</em>.”  He was nodding furiously, and threw up a hand in frustration.  “I’m gone for <em>ten minutes</em>—” 

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>"It was more than ten," said Geralt. 

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Jaskier raised one angry finger— was shaking it, preparing to retort— when he looked down suddenly, grimacing as he backed up... nimbly stepped around a huge, slimy pile of guts, all of his put-on anger vanishing in an instant:  “What the hell is <em>this?</em>  What—”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Bloedzuiger,” said Geralt, huskily.  “Three of them.” 
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Three,” said Jaskier, his voice full of disbelief, even though the evidence was there, around him.
 
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt rested his big, warm hands on Darcy’s bare shoulders, just for a second, and then he pushed around her and started to slosh through the lake, toward the bank, the rest of his body emerging bit by bit as he climbed out.  Sure enough, his leather pants were still in pretty good shape; there were just a few spots here and there where the acid had eaten through.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“So then— but—”  Jaskier was looking between him and Darcy, who’d sunk further down in the water, trying to hide…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“We got sprayed by the guts,” explained Geralt, totally matter-of-fact, as he  headed over to Roach, who’d thankfully been tied up far enough away to avoid any acid-splatter.  Geralt’s big black cloak was draped over the horses’s body like a blanket, and he lifted it off, and then patted the horse affectionately.  He shook out the cloak and headed back toward the lake.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Turn around,” he said, as he passed Jaskier on the way to the lake.  He stood on the bank and turned his own back, as he held out the cloak.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Right,” said Jaskier, and promptly turned around, facing the woods.  “Sorry, Darcy.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Darcy was making her way to shore— pressed her arms against her boobs as she emerged from the water.  “No peeking!” she said sternly, and then she quickly grabbed the cloak out of Geralt’s outstretched hand— wrapped herself up in it, already shivering in the cool, damp air…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I’m good,” she said, once she was all covered up.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Now what?” said Jaskier. “I mean, we clearly can’t stay here; not with all the—”  He gestured around at the mess.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“There’s no way in <em>hell</em> we’re staying here,” said Darcy, making it clear that she was dead serious.  “I’ll walk all the way to town on bloody feet, if I have to.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt was already walking away— had gone to retrieve his two swords, which were lying abandoned on the ground.  “Get the saddle,” he said to Jaskier.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>The bard moved to obey him, carefully stepping around the pools of guts— helped him pack up the things that were salvageable, which was everything but one of the bedrolls, which had been entirely dissolved by the slime.  Darcy was relieved to see that her phone was still there, on the other bedroll, and she bent to pick it up…  went to stow it in the saddlebag, holding the cloak closed around her body with one of her hands.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt was rummaging around in the other saddlebag— pulled out a little bundle of black cloth, which turned out to be an extra shirt. He looked over to Darcy— saw how she was still shivering— but she shook his head, anticipating the offer…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I think this is nerves, as much as anything,” she said.  “I’m good.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>When he held her gaze— making sure— she said, “Put the damn thing on. You’re gonna get eaten alive by flies, if you keep walking around all shirtless and awesome.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Jaskier choked down a laugh at that, as he packed up the surviving bedroll. Darcy just rolled her eyes: she hadn’t meant to say it loud like that, but whatever… she had very little dignity left at this point anyway…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt pulled the shirt on over his head and tugged it down with his hands and then looked at Darcy again— his eyes moving down to her bare feet.  “You can’t walk like that,” he said, referencing her earlier comment. “It’s too far.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>She looked over to the horse, uncertain.  “How am I supposed to… I mean…”  She didn’t want to get too explicit, but how was she supposed to sit a horse without any pants on?  

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I guess I could try to tuck this thing under me, or ride side-saddle, or…”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Jas,” said Geralt, “Give her your trousers.  So she can ride.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And even though she was objecting— already putting a hand out, in refusal— Darcy was smiling, because it was so weird to hear it:  Geralt using the man’s name— a nickname, even.  It was the first time she’d heard him do so. 

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Jaskier, for his part, looked taken aback for a second. “My— why not yours?”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Yours will fit her better,” said Geralt, ever practical.  “She’s tiny.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“No, don’t,” said Darcy, even as Jaskier was moving his hands to his trouser buttons, preparing to obey…  “<em>God</em>.  I’m fine.  I can— don’t worry about me.  I’m a grown-ass woman.  I can walk, really."  As an afterthought, she added, "And I'm actually not that tiny; I bet my hips are bigger than yours..."

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt looked at her, an expression on his face that she couldn’t decipher.  He made that disapproving sound— “<em>Hmmm</em>…” 

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And then he was striding toward her, and before she could object again, he was scooping her up, off her feet, one arm slipping under her legs, the other behind her back, all of her still wrapped up in the warm cloak.  He hefted her once— adjusting his hold on her— and then without another word, be began to walk.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Well, okay then,” she said, as she relaxed into his arms, smiling up at his stern face.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt ignored her, eyes forward as he walked.  He pitched a command to Jaskier, without turning his head: “Bring Roach.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Hey,” she heard Jaskier call from behind them, hope in his voice. “If Darcy’s not going to ride her, then can I—”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“No.”

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt’s answer was as flat, as final as ever— but as Darcy looked up at his ruggedly-handsome face, her body jostling gently in his arms as he carried her, she was sure she could see the smile there: hiding, almost invisible… just behind the golden-yellow cast of his eyes, which were softer now— almost sleepy, like he’d earned a rest… and for a second, she could see all the layers there— all the multitudes— the beating, human heart, still fighting to breathe and feel, behind the stoic, sad eyes of the wolf…  

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>And just like before, in the water, her stomach flipped, and she knew then that  she wanted this: wanted to press in… sink down, go deep.  Find out what was inside of those multitudes… to burn in the simmering heat she could feel now, beneath that shell of control that he shrouded himself with… and she knew when she touched it, she was going to melt— not like ice, but like metal… made liquid under fire…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Forged into something new…

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Geralt carried her for over two hours, only setting her down twice: the first time, when they paused long enough for Jaskier to run off and take a comically-long leak behind a tree; and the second time, when, at long last, they could see the shadowy outlines of manmade structures lining the road in the distance.

</p><p>She’d essentially been dozing for the last twenty minutes or so of the trek; they were finally leaving the swamp behind, and the relief of that had allowed her to relax her guard— to be lulled by the quiet night air, the gentle rocking of her body in Geralt’s arms, and the soft sound of Jaskier’s voice.  

</p><p>The bard’s lute lay dormant against his back— his hands occupied with handling Roach’s reins as he led her down the road— but his mouth was still an endless supply of fanciful, winding stories, broken up by bits and pieces of song… 

</p><p>And then the low, liquid resonance of Geralt’s voice brought her back from some hazy half-sleep— “We’re coming up on the town,” he said— and she opened her eyes: saw it there, in the distance.

</p><p>“Put me down,” she said, and he stopped— set her down gently.

</p><p>Darcy was very aware that she had little chance of blending in, in this odd-but-familiar world— that, even stripped of her futuristic-by-their standards clothing, she could still draw unwanted attention to herself by her unusual way of speaking: her accent, her unrecognizable slang.  

</p><p>She had no cover story to sell— and even if she’d bothered to come up with something, she was complete shit at lying.  The less she interacted with random people, the better.  Being carried in— bridal-style, by the Witcher— would probably not be the best way to start.

</p><p>Once her bare feet were on solid ground again, she tightened Geralt’s cloak around her body, and then gathered up the extra length of material that was dragging on the ground— held it bundled up in her hands, so that she wouldn’t trip over it as she walked. There was a little clasp at the neck that held the two sides together at her throat, but that was the only thing, besides her hands, keeping her from accidentally exposing herself under the glow of the full moon…

</p><p>And wasn’t that another oddity:  that bright, full, softly-cratered ball in the sky, that was so very similar-looking to Earth’s own satellite.  Was it the same moon?  Was this another Earth?

</p><p>She wanted to take pictures of the constellations, to take back to Jane— see if any of them were recognizable— but was afraid to whip out her phone.  Even Geralt had been wary of it— thought it some magical item.  She didn’t want to risk it being seen by some superstitious townsperson, maybe already watching them as they approached… have it confiscated or destroyed, as some kind of witchcraft.  Best to keep it hidden, for now.

</p><p>She wished she’d thought of photographing the stars earlier— like the night before, when they’d been lounging around, eating rabbit, nobody else around for miles. Jane, of course, would have thought of it immediately— would have taken multiple pictures of the sky, the very first night. Would have taken samples of the plants, the soil…

</p><p>Darcy, in contrast, had been too busy drooling over the man-meat to even think of such things…

</p><p>It turned out she needn’t have worried about any of it: using the phone outside the city limits, or being carried in by Geralt. The town was actually very quiet, the streets empty and dark: unlike what she’d expected, based on movies set in medieval times, there weren’t any torches to help light up the streets, and nobody was out and about— at least not that she could see… though she could hear the faint sound of some bad, off-key singing in the distance: maybe a local drunk, passed out in a ditch somewhere.  

</p><p>None of them said a word: instinctively matching their own quiet to that of the dormant village, as they walked three-abreast— four, if you counted Roach, whose reins Geralt had reclaimed from Jaskier.  The only ambient noise was that faint, drunken singing, and a very Earth-like sawing of crickets coloring the background.

</p><p>They passed a couple of sealed-up market stalls, and then some tradesmen’s shops, also closed-up and dark: a smithy, a cooper’s shop… and then Geralt came to a sudden stop, along with Jaskier, as they stared at what seemed to be an enormous pile of rubble— the size of a city lot, or two— off to the right.

</p><p>“Is that the…” said Jaskier, trailing off— speechless— as he took in the sight.  “I was just there… not two weeks ago…”

</p><p>They were both gaping at the scorched-black, burned-out, skeletal remains of some kind of building: one of some importance, judging by the size of the property. 

</p><p>“What was it?” said Darcy.  And then, going by the crestfallen look on Jaskier’s face, she said, “The whorehouse?”

</p><p>“No,” said Jaskier. “That’s at the other end of town.”

</p><p>“It was the bath-house,” said Geralt.

</p><p>“Aw, seriously?” said Darcy.  She dropped the bundled-up wad of cloak-fabric she was holding, letting the material pool on the dirty ground, not bothering to hide her disappointment.  She’d been fantasizing about that bath— not even necessarily in a pervy way— ever since Geralt had brought it up, back at camp…

</p><p>“This is recent,” said Geralt.  He looked disturbed.  As he stepped closer, he unconsciously reached up to touch his wolf’s-head medallion. 

</p><p>“What is it?” said Jaskier, noting the movement.  “Magic?”

</p><p>“Not sure,” said Geralt.  Then he sighed, stepped back, and with a soft little click of his tongue to Roach, continued on.  After another sad look at the wreck, Jaskier followed, as did Darcy, once she’d again gathered up the excess fabric of the cloak.

</p><p>They soon located the farrier’s, with its adjoining public stable, and Darcy and Jaskier waited in the street, while Geralt found the night groomsman— negotiated the fee to have Roach boarded there until morning.  He emerged a few minutes later, loaded down with their bags, his leather tunic, and the two swords, and set it all down on the ground— shook his head in refusal, when Darcy offered to help carry something.  

</p><p>“We should find a room,” he said, as he pulled the leather tunic on over his chemise, followed by the criss-cross harness.  “And something to eat.”

</p><p>“No argument here,” said Darcy.  “I could eat a horse.”  

</p><p>Geralt had just finished sliding the steel sword into his back scabbard when she made her comment, and he looked down at her with an expression that she interpreted as somewhat offended.  

</p><p>She was quick to amend:  “I wouldn’t <em>really</em> eat a horse,” she said.  “Unless I was starving, or…”  She glanced at Jaskier.  “It’s just a saying.”  

</p><p>“Right,” said Jaskier, nodding his head.  “It’s said here as well.  Wouldn’t actually <em>do</em> it, of course,” he said— doing his part to help her smooth it over...

</p><p>When Geralt looked away, bending over to pick up the saddlebags and the wrapped silver sword, Darcy flashed Jaskier an exaggerated “<em>Oh, shit</em>” kind of grimace, which made the bard stifle down a laugh…

</p><p>“The Whale’s usually good for food,” suggested Jaskier, once Geralt was finished hefting the rest of his gear.  He glanced at the man, considering… “And I hear they’re under new management— they might actually let you in this time…”

</p><p>“The Whale?” said Darcy, as they all began to walk again. It seemed like an odd name for a city on the edge of a swamp, with nothing but boggy lowlands in one direction, forest and mountains in the other. “Is there an ocean nearby?”

</p><p>“No,” said Jaskier.  “The original owner… he named it for his favorite, ah… <em>companion</em>.  Of the, uh… <em>female</em> persuasion.”  

</p><p>Darcy snorted. “And she’s cool with that?”

</p><p>“Oh, they’ve both been dead for… what, must be ten years now?”  He looked over to Geralt, for confirmation.

</p><p>The other man made a short “Hm,” in answer, and then Jaskier continued the story: 

</p><p>“She was rather proud of the title.  Smug about it, I’d say— until the wife finally put an end to their shenanigans— permanently.”  He grinned, clearly enjoying being the one to tell the story.

</p><p>“She <em>killed</em> them?” said Darcy.

</p><p>“Oh, she was innocent of the murder, at least directly,” said Jaskier.  “Was conveniently out of town, when the husband and his lady were struck down by bandits: run straight through, the both of them, with a single thrust of a spear— skewered, while they lay together in her little hovel.”

</p><p>“Whoa,” said Darcy.

</p><p>“Several chickens were stolen, as well…”

</p><p>Geralt made a huffing sound through his nose, which might have passed for a chuckle.  “I’d forgotten about the chickens,” he said. 

</p><p>“Some people don’t even <em>mention</em> the chickens,” said Jaskier, disdainfully. “How they can call themselves storytellers, and leave out such a detail…”

</p><p>“But everyone had to know it was her, right?” said Darcy.  “Behind it?”

</p><p>“Oh, obviously,” said Jaskier.  “But there was no way to prove it.  She came back to bury her husband, and play at her woeful weeping. Sold off the business, and shortly thereafter left town with her pockets full of coin.”  

</p><p>He sighed then, dramatically: “The Whale was harpooned, but her name lives on…”

</p><p>“New owner didn’t want to change it?” said Darcy.

</p><p>“Not with such a celebrated history,” said Jaskier, with a happy smile.  Then he dropped it for a more thoughtful expression. “For the life of me, I’ve no idea why I’ve never put the story to music; it’s deliciously sordid, and has a satisfyingly bloody end…”

</p><p>“Huh,” said Darcy.  “Well… where I come from, that name— <em>the Whale</em>— wouldn’t be, uh… most women wouldn’t… well, they wouldn’t really appreciate it.”

</p><p>Jaskier chuckled.  “You misunderstand,” he said. “Martyna was a fine, full figure of a woman, to be sure…”

</p><p>Geralt made another “Hm,” as if in agreement…

</p><p>“But delightful as she was in body, the name was… well, it was…”

</p><p>“What?” said Darcy, looking back and forth between the two men.  It was the first time she’d witnessed Jaskier actually holding back: as though he weren’t sure it’d be appropriate to speak out on the subject, whatever it was…  

</p><p>“Oh my God, spit it out,” she said, grinning.  “What, is it something dirty?” She was still trying to figure it out on her own:  <em>Whale?</em> What else could…

</p><p>“She, ah… well, how should one put it,” said Jaskier.  “Her <em>particular</em> talent,” he began to say, but then trailed off again…

</p><p>Geralt sighed heavily, his eyes looking sleepy as he raised his eyebrows— a bored sort of expression— and then simply said, with his typical economy of words, “She had good lungs.”

</p><p>“Lungs,” repeated Darcy in a flat voice— still not getting it.  She was picturing an opera singer now, or—

</p><p>“Able to hold her breath,” said Geralt, while Jaskier stifled a snort. “For a long time. Before needing to come up for… air.”

</p><p>“Oh,” said Darcy, and then: “<em>Oh</em>.” And then she was laughing— really laughing, full on, for the first time since she’d landed in this world…  almost tripped over the hem of the cloak, and had to stop and regather the excess material again…

</p><p>Geralt actually rolled his eyes as he looked away, while Jaskier giggled along with Darcy, infected by her hilarity…

</p><p>“And that’s what they named the bar after?” she said, as she regained her composure.  “Oh, that’s funny…”

</p><p>And then her brain backtracked a little— finally remembered the other piece of information that Jaskier had let drop, way back at the beginning of the conversation:

</p><p>“Wait: what did you mean by, ‘<em>might</em> let you in?’”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The Whale was a decent-sized, wattle-and-daub, timber-framed building, with a worn wooden sign swinging from a couple of rusty metal hooks, featuring what looked a bit like a hefty mermaid carved on its face. From the looks of it, it was the fanciest place in town, notwithstanding the pile of old rags outside the front door, which turned out to be the human being they’d heard singing as they’d walked through the town.

</p><p>As soon as the three of them approached, the drunk stopped his pitch-deaf warbling long enough to look Geralt over appraisingly. 

</p><p>“Well, well… well,” he said, the third <em>well</em> delayed by a belch, as his eyes flicked to Darcy and Jaskier, and then back to Geralt.  “The Butcher of Blaviken, hisself— if my eyes en’t deceivin’ me— along with his barker.”  He looked at Darcy again.  “And a strumpet.”  He cackled and then spat into a mud-puddle next to him— or maybe that was a pool of vomit… 

</p><p>“Good luck gettin’ yerself served by that rat-bugger Jacob in there, Witcher,” he said. “He’s an even bigger bastard than old Jan.” His eyes moved back to Darcy as he wet his already wet lower lip.  “But who can say— maybe ye could trade your whore for a pint or two, dependin’ on how—”

</p><p>“Hey!” said Darcy, cutting him off, but Jaskier was already hustling her inside, Geralt right behind her— both of them having completely ignored the drunk’s ramblings.

</p><p>“What did he call him?” hissed Darcy, to Jaskier.  “The Butcher of… what?”

</p><p>“I’ll tell you later,” he said, looking back nervously at Geralt’s stony face.  “It was a long time ago.  We, uh… we don't talk about it.”

</p><p>“Maybe you should give me a list,” she muttered, but he didn’t hear her— her words lost in the noisy jumble of the crowded tavern.

</p><p>She tried to stick close to him as he wove his way toward the bar, glancing back once herself, to make sure Geralt was following— feeling claustrophobic, vulnerable.  

</p><p>It was too loud, after the quiet of the wilderness and the deserted streets of the sleepy town— the room filled with a wash of rough voices: most of them men, many of them inebriated.  The stagnant air was thick with the stink of sour, dirty humans, laced with undertones of some kind of cooked meat.  She could smell beer too— the filthy floor probably swabbed with an abundance of ancient spills— and though all of that was frankly disgusting, she couldn’t deny that she’d be willing to put up with a lot, for a hot plate of food, a cold pint of beer, and hopefully, somewhere, a warm bed.

</p><p>And then, in an almost comically abrupt manner— like a scene from a movie— the merriment died down, and then it was practically silent, as the large gathering of people, clustered about the room at rustic wooden tables, ceased all conversation to stare at their little party… 

</p><p>The innkeeper— a heavyset man with a full black beard and a sweaty brow— was wiping his hands on a rag behind the bar, watching them approach, and Darcy could already tell by the look on his face that it wasn’t going to go well…

</p><p>Jaskier could clearly sense it too, judging by the forced, fixed smile he plastered across his face— pressing on, in spite of the bad vibe.

</p><p>“A tankard of beer for myself and my two companions,” he said, as he slammed his palm down on the bar, in a show of enthusiasm.  “And do tell me, what is that <em>lovely</em> aroma coming from your kitchen?  Is it boar?”

</p><p>The innkeeper held Jaskier’s eyes for a moment, the stern man’s expression not changing in the slightest from the steely look it’d assumed upon their entry.

</p><p>“I”ll give ye a pint,” he said, “But I en’t about to serve the other one.”  He turned his head long enough to spit on the floor, and then he looked at them again, his eyes resting on Darcy for just a moment. “Or his whore.”

</p><p>“Hey!” said Darcy, for what felt like the hundredth time, and then the innkeeper interrupted before she could say more…

</p><p>“He can try his luck at Bald Billy’s,” he said with a sneer. “Those low-lives’ll let anyone in— half-breeds and decent folk alike.  Even mutants like you, Witcher.  No standards at all.”

</p><p>“Yeah,” said Jaskier, with a bit of attitude. “We’re aware. Billy and I go way back. How long have <em>you</em> been in this town? A whole two seconds?”

</p><p>“You’d refuse my coin,” said Geralt to the innkeeper.

</p><p>He’d come up behind Darcy: like a physical reminder that she was safe— that he literally had her back. He was perfectly calm, which was more than Darcy could say.  She wasn’t used to dealing with such blatant prejudice, and she was <em>furious</em>…

</p><p>“Aye, that I would,” said the innkeeper.  “And I’ll be askin’ you to leave my establishment now, an’ without any trouble.”  He glanced meaningfully at the wrapped weapon that Geralt carried in his hand, and then looked at Jaskier again.  “But you, bard— you’re welcome to stay.  Haven’t had any entertainment since I took over the place, unless you count the bath-house burning down…”

</p><p>“Are you kidding me?” said Darcy, unable to contain her outrage.  “As if he’d stick around here, after—”  She stopped, when she felt Geralt’s big hand land on her shoulder— felt him flex his fingers, just a little— a clear enough suggestion to say no more…

</p><p>Jaskier and Geralt exchanged a look, then, and Geralt pressed his lips together, sighed.  “Stay, if you want,” he said, his voice neutral— practical.  He glanced back toward the crowds of people in the room behind them, who seemed to be just on the other side of openly hostile.  “Earn what you can.”

</p><p>Jaskier nodded, an apologetic look in his eyes.  “I’ll catch up to you later,” he said.

</p><p>“Seriously?” said Darcy, under her breath.  “You’d take money from these—”

</p><p>“Let’s go,” said Geralt, stopping her from saying more, and he began to steer her back toward the entryway.

</p><p>But as much as she was glad to be getting the fuck out of there, Darcy couldn’t resist: stopped just long enough to whirl around— to fire back at the innkeeper, hating every pore of his ugly face…

</p><p>“Hey, just so you know?” she called out. “I don’t serve <em>your</em> kind either.  You know: <em>assholes?</em>  You don’t even come <em>close</em> to meeting my New-York big-city self-respecting-whore standards.”

</p><p>“Go on, get out!” yelled someone derisively, and then other people began to hoot and holler at them, hurling insults and slurs, and someone even threw a bun at them, which missed Geralt’s head and bounced off the wall…

</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” she hissed, as she ducked another flying piece of bread, and some kind of root vegetable, and Geralt pulled open the door and got them out of there, before anything could actually pelt them.  

</p><p>“Fucking hell,” she said, once they were safely outside.  “<em>Assholes</em>. What the fuck are we even doing in this town?”

</p><p>The drunk was still lying there in the muck, and he chortled triumphantly when he saw them.

</p><p>“I told ye so,” he said, slapping the ground with glee.  “I told ye…”

</p><p>“Stick it up your ass,” said Darcy— in no mood for it— and then turned to face Geralt. “What now?” she said. 

</p><p>“Billy’s,” said Geralt.  “Down the street. She’ll give us a room, if she has one.”

</p><p>“She,” said Darcy, surprised.  “Bald Billy’s a woman?  I thought he was like… a local gangster or something…”

</p><p>“It’s short for Biljana,” he said.  “She runs the whorehouse.  As the man said, they don’t… discriminate.”

</p><p>“God, why didn’t we just go there in the first place?” said Darcy.  

</p><p>“Didn’t think—” he started to say, and then he just ended it with a “Hm.”

</p><p>“Jeez, don’t worry about <em>me</em>,” she said, surmising what he hadn’t said.  “I’m no babe-in-the-woods…”  And then she frowned, because the last two days she’d been precisely that: both literally and figuratively… “Only… I mean… they won’t like… try to put me to work or anything, will they?  Since apparently everyone else on this goddamned planet seems to think I’m a—”

</p><p>“Whyn’t you take me with you?” slurred the drunk, with another sloppy laugh.  “I can’t pay you, but I’ll show ye a good time…”

</p><p>“Shut the <em>fuck</em> up,” she said to the guy, and then turned her back on him again.

</p><p>“You’ll be fine,” said Geralt, and she could see on his face that in spite of everything, there was a bit of humor there.  And then he tilted his head, indicating that they should go.  “Come on,” he said, and they both ignored the drunk, who was still singing after them, as they turned and walked away— beseeching them to come back… to carry him, take him with them…

</p><p>“How can you be so calm,” she said, as they walked side-by-side. “After the way they—”  She was still fuming a little.  “Was that… typical?  I mean…”

</p><p>“Typical, yes,” he said.  He was silent for a minute, and then finally elaborated.  “Witchers are not… welcomed,” he said.  “Unless our service is required, and then we’re tolerated only for the duration of the work.”

</p><p>“God,” she said.  “Fucking hypocrites.”  She was reliving it now— thinking about how quickly it’d escalated— how the patrons had started throwing shit at them, yelling ugly names.  It would have been terrifying, if she hadn’t been so blinded by fury in the moment.  “So is everyone in this world a fucking bigot?  Full of hate?”

</p><p>“Not everyone,” he said.  And then, as an afterthought: “But most.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bald Billy, it became immediately clear, was not among that group of ‘<em>most</em>’:

</p><p>“<em>Geralt!</em>” boomed a rich alto voice, as soon as they set foot through the front door of the whorehouse, which, like the Whale, was hopping with business while the rest of the town slept…

</p><p>Darcy was peeking around him— sizing up the room, which felt like a set for a Civil-War-era porno.  Rich, jewel-toned, velvet-covered chaise lounges, settees, and tête à têtes lined the antechamber just beyond the entryway— almost all of them occupied. Young, well-shaped women with colorful, wispy fabrics draped around their nearly-bare breasts tittered prettily as they entertained a variety of fully-clothed, scummy-looking men…

</p><p>“Billy,” said Geralt, with a nod, as an impressive-looking woman made her way over to them, while Darcy stepped forward so that she was standing by his side.
She didn’t want to stare, but it was hard not to:  the woman was a whole lot of look, to put it lightly.  

</p><p>She had on a deep purple gown of some heavy, curtain-like fabric— cinched at the waist by a pine-green corset that was both laced and belted with leather.  It held her body in tightly, from the tops of her hips to bottoms of her breasts, the upper band of it serving as a sort of shelf-bra that pushed up her overflowing bosom.  The skirt of the dress was split down the middle, revealing a wicked pair of thigh-high, suede-brown boots with red-leather strips of ribbon tied off with bows, wrapped around the boots under the knee and at mid-thigh.  Most of her skin— a gorgeous, coppery brown— was on display up top, with her bodice just barely coming up high enough to cover her nipples. Her head was topped with what was very obviously a wig— a rich, blood-red color, made of widely-looping curls that reached down to tumble across her shoulders.  Her makeup was heavily applied, though stopped short of being clown-like…

</p><p>If not for the boobs, which were very obviously real— not some silicone breastplate— Darcy would have assumed she was looking at a drag queen.

</p><p>“Is it really <em>you</em>, Geralt?” said the woman, as she looked him up and down, like he was something tasty.  “Oh, it’s been <em>far</em> too <em>long</em>…”  She glanced to Darcy for just a moment— her deep, chocolate-brown eyes full of both mischief and intelligence.

</p><p>“Is Jaskier with you?” she said, as she focused her attention on Geralt again. “He was just here… maybe two weeks ago— before all the trouble…”

</p><p>“Jas is over at the Whale,” said Geralt.  “I’m sure he’ll be coming by later… once he’s filled his pockets.”

</p><p>Darcy wasn’t sure where to look: she didn’t want to keep staring at Billy’s impressive boobs— she looked like she could suffocate a man with her cleavage— but every time she averted her eyes, they landed on some vision of fairly unappetizing frottage occurring on one of the lounge-chairs.  She watched as one of the couples stood up— the young lady tugging on the man’s hand; she led him back through a beaded curtain to some more private area where, evidently, the actual transactions took place…

</p><p>“And who’s this?” said Billy, her painted-red smile still in place as she reached out and took one of Darcy’s hands.  And then, “But you’re chilly— we need to warm you up…”

</p><p>“I’m okay,” said Darcy, and she tucked her hand back under the cloak as soon as Billy released it.  “Just, uh… accidentally… ran out of clothes.”

</p><p>Billy laughed, not unkindly. “Oh, honey,” she said.  “I’ve been there…”

</p><p>“This is Darcy,” said Geralt.  “Jas and I… we’re taking her to the Tower.”

</p><p>“Is that a side-business now?” said Billy, with a single-arched eyebrow.  “Escort-service?  Bodyguard?”

</p><p>“No,” said Geralt.

</p><p>Billy made a <em>tsk</em> sound as she shook her head.  “You should consider it— with the lack of monsters these days, you may find you need to adapt.  Find other ways to earn your coin…”  She winked at him, and Darcy couldn’t help stifling a smile at the obvious insinuation…

</p><p>“Well,” she said, when Geralt made no comment.  “How can we accommodate you?”

</p><p>“They wouldn’t serve us at the Whale,” he said.  “I was hoping you could put us up for the night.  Maybe a hot meal.  Some beer, if you’ve got it.  A bath.”  He frowned then.  “What happened to the bath-house?”

</p><p>“Come on,” she said, and turned, heading toward a doorway to the rear of the antechamber, on the other side of the room from the beaded curtain.  “I’ll pour you a drink, and tell you all about it.”  

</p><p>She snapped her fingers to a bored-looking young woman who was sitting alone on a pale-green settee. “Zuzanna,” she said.  “Bring us some hot soup.  And bread. And beer.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“It was that sorceress,” said Billy.

</p><p>Her ample cleavage squished together as she leaned forward to rest her forearms on the tabletop. They were seated around a small, heavy wooden table in what Darcy had guessed was the woman’s private drawing room, which was richly furnished and lit up by an abundance of candles.  

</p><p>Billy was talking to them, while Darcy and Geralt wolfed down the hot soup— some kind of mixture of root vegetables, in a thick, brown broth— that the young woman had brought in for them.  There was also a big loaf of rustic bread, from which they took turns tearing hand-sized hunks.  They each had a large ceramic tankard of beer, and a big pitcher sat between them on the table for refills. Darcy was grateful for it. The beer was strong— reminded her of the Belgian ale that Bucky sometimes drank, if he was trying to catch a light buzz— and for the first time in two days, she could feel some of her tension unwinding. 

</p><p>“Sorceress,” said Geralt.  “Which one.  Did you get a name?” He was lifting the soup bowl to his mouth to get the last of the broth— drinking straight from it like a giant cup.

</p><p>“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she said, and she smiled when Geralt coughed, almost choking on his mouthful of soup.

</p><p>“Yennefer,” he said, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “When?”

</p><p>“Just a few days ago,” said Billy.  “She was on her way to the Tower, just like your friend, here.  Far as I know, she’s still there.  Hasn’t come back through this way, at least.”

</p><p>“Fuck,” said Geralt, as he set down the soup bowl.  He let out a loud sigh through his nose.

</p><p>“Still sweet on her, eh?” said Billy, grinning playfully at Geralt’s reaction.  “I thought—”

</p><p>“She burned down the bath-house,” said Geralt, interrupting. “Why?”

</p><p>It was Billy’s turn to sigh, then, and Darcy tried not to react when the woman leaned back in her wooden chair and pulled her wig off, dropping it into her lap— revealing a perfectly smooth and shiny, coppery-brown, completely hairless head.

</p><p>“Rumor has it,” she said, “some poor fool made a crack at her. Something about ‘hips made for making babies’…”

</p><p>“Oh, Yen,” said Geralt quietly, as he shook his head, shutting his eyes.

</p><p>“Silly to be so touchy about it,” said Billy, shrugging.  “With a body like that, she can’t be any stranger to—”

</p><p>“It’s not—” Geralt started to say, but then stopped, and simply said, “Never mind.”  He opened his eyes and changed the subject.  “You still have that room with the tub?  Ran into a bit of trouble earlier today.  Zuigers.  In the swamp.”

</p><p>“Ahhh,” she said, her eyes moving between the two of them. “And here I was, talking about the lack of monsters.”  She glanced to Darcy again: “I guess that explains the clothes. You wash up yet? Clearly not, if you’re needing a tub.”

</p><p>“We took a dip in the lake,” said Geralt. “But not for very long.”

</p><p>“Well, you’ll be needing it then,” she said, nodding.  “Don’t want to end up like me.”  She was still leaning back in her chair. “Sure, it’s available. Not too many can afford <em>that</em> room.”  She paused, and then said, “Which… I’m sorry, Geralt, but… business being what it is… I hate to ask, but… do you have the coin for it?”

</p><p>Geralt tilted his head and blinked, slowly. “How much.”

</p><p>“One-fifty.”

</p><p>“One-fifty,” he repeated, his eyebrows knitting together.  “I’m not asking for company.”

</p><p>“I’d assumed as much,” said Billy. “The regular price for that room— <em>with</em> one of my girls— is two-seventy-five.”

</p><p>Geralt sagged back into his chair a little further, and made one of his “<em>Hmm</em>” noises:  this time, it was a sound of irritation.

</p><p>Darcy had been listening silently to all of it, as she ate and drank, but now she sat up a little.  “I could…”  She reached up to unthread and remove the tiny metal hoops from each of her earlobes.  “They’re hollow, but… the outsides— they’re real gold…  is that something you could…”

</p><p>The woman looked at the little earrings in Darcy’s outstretched palm.  Took them and slipped them into some tiny pocket hidden away in the drapes of her skirt.  “Tell you what,” she said, addressing Geralt, who’d folded his big, meaty arms across his chest.  “You clear all the rats out of my storeroom, and I’ll let you have it for a hundred,” she said.

</p><p>“Rats,” he repeated, with a sleepy-eyed smile, like he didn’t buy it.

</p><p>“Big ones,” she said.  “Coming up from the sewers, from what I can tell.”

</p><p>Darcy could see him considering it, his lips pressed together as he stared at the woman across from him.

</p><p>“Seventy-five,” he said, finally.  “And you send a girl up with hot water for the tub, and more food and beer.  And Darcy here needs some clothes.”

</p><p>Billy took a few seconds to think it over.  “Ninety,” she said.

</p><p>“Eighty.”

</p><p>“Eighty-five.”

</p><p>“Deal,” said Geralt.  He pushed up immediately— went to get the money out of one of the saddlebags, which he’d left in a corner of the room, along with his swords.  He counted out the coin and handed it over to Billy, who vanished it, like the earrings, into her dress somewhere.

</p><p>“You should go to the room,” said Geralt, looking at Darcy, who’d now stood up too.  “Eat.  Rest.  And wash your hair, as soon as the bath’s ready.  Like the lady said—”  He smirked, as he tilted his head toward the other woman— “Don’t want to end up like her.”

</p><p>“You’re walking on thin ice, Witcher,” said Billy, with a bit of sass, as she stood up as well.  She was grinning— her fondness for him written all over her smile.  She was holding the wig— hadn’t put it back on yet. She went over to a sideboard, where there was a carved wooden mannequin head— set the wig on it carefully, and then turned back to face Darcy.  “Come here, honey,” she said.  “Let me get a sense of your size…”

</p><p>“Is that— did you— your hair,” said Darcy haltingly, looking up at the woman’s smooth, bald head, in spite of herself.

</p><p>“Lost it all, before I’d seen my tenth year,” she said.  She put her hands on Darcy’s shoulders and then moved them down to her waistline, approximating her measurements through the thick cloak.

</p><p>“Got sprayed by one of the zuigers, when my father sliced off one of its arms,” she said.  “Tryin’ to save me from it.  Did a thorough washing up— my arms, my face— thought I’d gotten it all out… but middle of the night, I wake up in bed, my head all burning like fire, and all of my hair— gone.  Like it’d never been there.  Musta been tiny bits of guts still stuck in my hair, and I never felt it slowly burnin’ away, ’til it gets all the way up to my head.”  

</p><p>“God,” said Darcy, and she instinctively reached up to touch her own hair, feeling like her skin was crawling. “And it never grew back?”

</p><p>“I’m used to it,” said Billy, and when she smiled softly, Darcy could see how beautiful she was: the bald head almost enhancing it— nothing in the way.  “Been living longer without it, now, than I ever did with it.”

</p><p>In the time they’d been talking, Geralt had relaced his leather tunic, put the criss-cross harness back on and belted it securely.  Slid the steel sword into the scabbard along his back.  He turned to Darcy— apparently trusting her, finally, with the rest of his stuff:  handed over the saddlebags, and the wrapped, silver sword, which was heavy, but not so much as the steel one. 

</p><p>“Go,” he said.  “Eat. Wash up, and rest.”  And then, to Billy:  “Show me the rats.”

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>The bath was incredible.  

</p><p>Darcy was luxuriating in it: the big, wooden-slatted, barrel-style washtub, deep and wide enough for two— or more, if you didn’t mind getting a little familiar. Like a medieval version of a hot-tub, it was set into a stone-bricked nook in the corner of what she understood to be the fanciest, most private accommodations in the brothel.  She was up to her neck in deliciously warm water, scented by some kind of fragrant oil with an exotic aroma she couldn’t identify— something a bit sultry, like night-blooming jasmine, but not so cloying…

</p><p>The room had its own fireplace, with what looked like a cast-iron cookpot hanging over the glowing coals within— more of that vegetable stew inside: waiting for her, in case she got hungry again.  A fresh pitcher of that strong, Belgian-style ale sat on the sturdy stone coping that ringed one side of the tub, and she’d poured herself a generous helping, sipping from the tankard as she soaked.  The alcohol was unwinding all of the aches and worries from the previous two days, and after downing another pint of it, in addition to the one she’d already had in Billy’s room, she realized she needed to slow down— wanted to keep at least <em>some</em> of her wits about her.

</p><p>The entire room was lit up by a multitude of candles: glowing above, in hanging, metal-and-wood chandeliers; spread about the room in clusters of many-pronged candelabra; and as randomly-placed, slowly-melting tapers set into little ceramic plates.  Though she knew they were purely utilitarian in this world— no electric lights here— the effect was nevertheless sedating, soothing, inadvertently romantic…

</p><p>The one large, wooden bed, laid with heavy velvet blankets and honey-colored furs, had its own line of candles mounted directly to the top of the headboard— maybe threaded onto nails pounded up from the underside of the top-rail.  It all struck Darcy, with her twenty-first-century paranoia, as a bit of a fire-hazard, but she wasn’t about to blow any of them out; the decadence of it all was like nothing she’d experienced before, and she intended to make the most of it.

</p><p>What exactly that would eventually include, she wasn’t yet sure— but she had hopes…

</p><p>She had an unobstructed view of the bed, from her current reclined position in the tub, and it waited there, like a tease… or a dare. She’d considered the sleeping arrangements with both heady anticipation, and a fair amount of uncertainty, because clearly they were meant to share it— she and Geralt— unless he planned to let her have it all to herself, while he slept on the floor or in one of the big wooden chairs.  She wouldn’t put it past the man, if his intentions were to leave her alone.

</p><p>She’d been thinking it over, as she cleaned and combed out her hair, teasing out the tangles, using more of the bath oil, and a wide-toothed wooden comb; had been going through the events from the past two days— the hints of chemistry— and whether it really added up to anything more than her own wishful thinking…

</p><p>She kept going back to the way Geralt had reacted, at the mention of his lady’s name… <em>Yennefer</em>.  Thought of what he’d said to Billy: that he wasn’t ‘<em>looking for company</em>.’  But she was also replaying that little moment they’d shared in the lake— the way he’d crowded himself into her… touched her hair… how he’d blinked so slowly, everything feeling heavy, both of them just waiting for something to happen… 

</p><p>At least that was how it’d felt to her…

</p><p>Had she misread it?

</p><p>She pulled the comb through the last small section of hair— finished working out the one remaining snarl— and then set the comb back down on the coping.  Dunked herself completely under the water once, and then came up, smoothing back her slick, deep-brown waves.  She hoped the oil and the combing and rinsing had done the trick with any remaining residue from the bloedzuiger guts, because there wasn’t anything like shampoo available…

</p><p>She leaned forward to refill her beer, ready to just relax again…  and then sat back quickly, dipping her boobs below the water, when she heard the rusty squeak of the door hinges: someone coming into the room… maybe that girl again— Zuzanna…

</p><p>It wasn’t Zuzanna; it was Geralt, his tall, sturdy body filling the doorway as he pushed inside— already back from the sewers, or wherever he’d ended up going.  

</p><p>“That was fast,” she said, as she unconsciously moved her arms in front of her body.  She didn’t want to seem a prude, but there was no bubble-bath, no murky lake-water here, to hide herself under— the low light of the room the only thing lending any mystery at all to what lay below the surface…

</p><p>It also occurred to her, at that point, that she hadn’t noticed any towels… how was she meant to get out of the tub, without showing him all her stuff?

</p><p>He shut the door and walked slowly— tiredly— over to the big table where she’d put down the rest of his belongings, earlier.  

</p><p>“I don’t like rats,” he said.  “Especially the big ones.  Best to take care of them quickly, before they can come at you in numbers…”

</p><p>He unsheathed his steel sword and lay it down on the table, next to the silver one, still wrapped in its oilcloth.  He had his back to her, and she watched as he rotated his head slowly— first in one direction and then the other, pulling each shoulder down the opposite way to get the stretch…

</p><p>“Bet you’re wiped out, huh,” she said.  She was resisting the urge to babble— to somehow cover over the slightly awkward situation they now found themselves in. At least, it was awkward for <em>her</em>: not knowing where, exactly, they stood. Geralt, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease, if a little weary…  

</p><p>“Do witchers even get… tired?”

</p><p>“Definitely,” he said, and then he unbuckled and removed the criss-cross harness and tossed it on the table, followed by the leather tunic.  Went over to a chair and dropped down into it heavily, looking like any worn-out person coming home after a long day of work. “How’s the bath,” he said, as he leaned over to pull off his boots.

</p><p>“Fucking awesome,” she said, meaning it.  “This tub is amazing.” She sank down into it a little more, her chin dipping into the water.

</p><p>He glanced at her as he stood back up, leaving his boots discarded on the floor.  Went over to the fireplace and leaned in to stir the contents of the pot, sniffing at it.

</p><p>“You wanna wash up?” she said.  “There’s, uh… there’s still some hot water, in that bucket, if…”

</p><p>She wasn’t really expecting him to join her: was used to Bucky, who’d always declined, whenever she'd suggested a shared bath… complaining that the combination shower-and-tub in her apartment was too small for both of them.  He had a point, but she suspected it was more about avoiding the intimacy of it…

</p><p>To her surprise, Geralt started to pull his clothes off without further ado— first tugging the black chemise up over his head, and then moving his hands to the front of his leather trousers to undo all of the buttons running down the fly…

</p><p><em>Oh— okay</em>…

</p><p>She didn’t know where to look— averted her eyes, as he kept going: unabashedly pushing down first the pants, and then the simple homespun braies he had on underneath…

</p><p>She made herself busy with the beer: poured herself some more, and then another for him, pretending to a nonchalance that she didn’t feel as he stripped himself bare.  Even as she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the pitcher— taking longer than necessary to pour the drinks— she could see, out of her peripheral vision, that he was the very definition of a well-formed man, and something inside her was already high-fiving any and all guardian angels who were up there, watching…

</p><p>He was lifting the metal pan that lay on top of the extra bucket of hot water— keeping warm by the fireplace— made his ‘<em>hm</em>’ sound as he tested the temperature with his fingers: still warm enough, apparently.  He brought the bucket with him— set it down within arm’s reach— and then he was climbing in, the water sloshing as he settled his big body into the tub, opposite her.  When the jostling stopped, and he let out a long, satisfied sigh, she finally lifted her gaze and let herself look…

</p><p>He was leaning back: his heavily-muscled arms stretched out on either side of the curved edge of the tub, his eyes shut, his entire upper body on display— nothing in the way… just that wolf’s-head medallion, hanging down to rest in the furrow between the lightly-haired planes of his broad, meaty chest…

</p><p>She needed to say something— anything— just to play it cool… didn’t want to be completely obvious about the effect he was having on her— especially when he seemed so matter-of-fact, blasé… no big deal.  Yep: just taking a bath…

</p><p>It was a little embarrassing, how turned on she already was: how his raw, relaxed masculinity was making her want to push off from the back of the tub— just float over there and climb on… 

</p><p>She wanted to suck on that deep cleft in his chin…

</p><p>She wondered what he’d do, if she actually gave into the urge…

</p><p>“There’s beer,” she said, shakily.

</p><p>“Hmm,” he said, like he was pleased with the news, though he made no move to sit up and take the tankard she’d filled for him.  He was completely quiet for a bit: apparently just enjoying the soak— and then, without opening his eyes, he said, “Did you wash your hair?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said.  “I mean, I couldn’t find any soap, but there’s this oil stuff…”

</p><p>“That’ll do,” he said, and his voice sounded so warm, so sleepy…

</p><p>“What about you?” she said.  “Don’t you need to…”

</p><p>“Probably,” he said, but again, he made no move to alter his state of languid repose, other than to bend one of his legs— one knee breaking through the surface, rivulets of oily water snaking down the upper bit of exposed, muscular thigh…

</p><p>“I hope Jaskier’s okay,” she said— still making feeble conversation… pretending to be just as relaxed, as unaffected as he seemed to be, even though there was an unfairly arousing scene of peekaboo playing out right across from her. 

</p><p>Still, her question wasn’t <em>complete</em> bullshit; she was, in truth, a little worried about her friend… had visions of his being pummeled with potatoes and bread, over at the Whale…

</p><p>Instead of answering, Geralt finally sat up a little— twisted his upper body in the tub, reaching one of his long arms over to grab the hot-water bucket.  He poured it out smoothly, right over himself, tipping his head back, eyes shut, as the water ran down in rivers all over his face, his hair.  Once he’d emptied the bucket, he let it drop to the floor— leaned back again, running a hand through his hair, fingers seeking the little band that held it together in the back… tugged it out, letting all of the dripping strands hang loose.

</p><p>“He’ll be fine,” he said, finally answering her question. He allowed himself a faint smile: “He’s in his element.”

</p><p>“You want the oil?” she said, trying to recover from the pornography happening on the other side of the tub.  He was dragging his hand through his wet hair now, trying to slick it all back. “There’s a comb…”

</p><p>“No need,” he said, even as his fingers caught on a snarl behind his right ear, and for some reason that did it: that typical male stubbornness— and before she could talk herself out of it, she was gliding toward him in the water, her right hand grabbing up the wooden comb and the little vial of oil from the coping as she went by.

</p><p>“Scoot up,” she said, as she made to squeeze by, turning toward the side of the tub for a ludicrous bit of modesty.  He turned his head to look at her as she passed, his arm lifting up in an arc above her as she ducked beneath it, maneuvering around him…

</p><p>He moved up a little, toward the middle of the tub, making room, and once she was back there, she gave up: didn’t even care if she was being presumptuous anymore— just went ahead and let her boobs bump into his back as she positioned herself behind him.

</p><p>She poured a bit of the scented oil into her palm, and then moved it up to his hair, using her fingers to work it in… dragged the comb down through a narrow section of hair, the oil easing the way for the wide wooden teeth as they glided down, working out the tangles, bit by bit…

</p><p>She could see, now that she was right next to all that skin— able to get a closer look— that he was covered in scars.  Most of them were minor, but a few were serious-looking— the kind that suggested what would have been a mortal wound for a regular man— and it made her think of Bucky, who was similarly marked by a inability to die easily…

</p><p>She drew the comb down again, her fingers following the teeth in their wake, slicking down through the now-smooth strands of hair that she’d untangled. She took her time, enjoying the job— glad he was letting her do it.  It was calming, all of it: the candles, the warm water, the quiet.  The simple, soothing intimacy of grooming.  It felt good to touch someone…

</p><p>She said it out loud without really meaning to: “Bucky would never let me do this…”

</p><p>“Bucky,” he said, his voice neutral.

</p><p>“My boyfriend,” she said, automatically, and then corrected herself:  “I mean… my <em>ex</em>-boyfriend.”  She sighed, and this time, after the comb made it down through the dripping-wet tips of grey, she let her hand slide along the thick plate of his trapezius muscle, on his left side, his skin warm and slick from the oil in the water…

</p><p>“He never once got in the tub with me,” she said, as she lifted her hand from his skin— returned it to his hair, for another pass…  “Much less let me comb out his hair.”

</p><p>He made his noise: “<em>Hmmm</em>”— almost like a purr— and then said, “Men are fools.”  

</p><p>He seemed amused, but in a lazy kind of way, and he finally leaned forward to grab the tankard of beer she’d poured for him.  She paused her work— just let her hand rest on his warm back as he drank, enjoying the play of his muscles under her palm as he leaned forward to put the tankard back when he was done. 

</p><p>“He’s not stupid,” she said, as she resumed her work with the comb. She was feeling defensive, in spite of herself— like she needed to explain. “He’s just… he doesn’t know how to relax.  It’s not his fault, but…”  And then she stopped herself: why the fuck was she making excuses for him?  Why the fuck was she even <em>talking</em> about Bucky right now?  

</p><p>“Anyway,” she continued, “my tub isn’t nice and deep like this one.  So even if I <em>could’ve</em> convinced him, which was never gonna happen… which sucks, because he could use it more than anyone else I know…”  She was babbling now, but she couldn’t seem to stop.  “I mean, not a wash: we have showers for that— just the relaxing part… but it doesn’t matter now anyway, so—”

</p><p>“The solution is obvious,” he said, interrupting.  He’d turned his head to the side for a moment, catching her in his peripheral vision.

</p><p>“Oh yeah?” she said, the comb pausing for a second.  “You got some kind of magic potion in your bag for that?  Something that’ll chill out a super-soldier?  Because—”

</p><p>“Find a larger tub,” he said, as he turned to face forward again.

</p><p>She smirked, though he couldn’t see it. “I wish,” she said softly, as she made a final pass with the comb.  She gathered up the bulk of his hair, pulling it toward herself, so that all it lay behind his shoulders, and then combed through it one last time with her fingers. “I don’t know why they fucking ‘upgraded’ from this bathing technology, to the shallow, cheap-ass shit we have now.  Definitely not an improvement.”

</p><p>“What’s a super-soldier,” he said, surprising her: she hadn’t thought he was really paying that much attention.

</p><p>“It’s, uh… I guess he’s kind of like you,” she said. “Enhanced. He’s a lot stronger… faster. More durable than… than a normal human.”  She sighed.  “He’s got a metal arm.  It, uh… it wasn’t his choice, either.”

</p><p>He made a short “<em>hm</em>”— an acknowledgment.  And then he said, “He’s probably worried about you.  Back in… New York.  Trying to find you.”

</p><p>“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.  And anyway, New York is like… it’s huge.  You don’t just go walking around, looking for someone…”  

</p><p>She was done with his hair, and she floated her way back to her original spot, setting the comb and the oil back down on the coping on the way.  Swirled around so that she was facing him again.

</p><p>“I doesn’t matter,” she said.  “He and I… we might be… done,” she said.  “I mean, we are.  He made that pretty clear.”  

</p><p>He was quiet— just listening, one hand reaching back to feel the results of her efforts: all the snarls combed out…

</p><p>“The last time I saw him?” she said. “I pretty much told him to go fuck himself.”

</p><p>“<em>Hmmm</em>,” he said, and there was a hint of a smile on his face, as he leaned back, once again resting his big arms along the back of the tub. “That’s not always an ending…”

</p><p>She dropped her gaze to the water— watched herself creating and then tracing little eddies in it with her fingers.  She was aware that he could probably see pretty much everything, if he wanted to: the shapes and colors of her, just slightly distorted, beneath it, and she was okay with it now… ready to go for it, if she could just get some kind of sign from him…

</p><p>“I know what you mean,” she said, “but… no.  This was different.  Like, the last time we were actually alone together?”  She shook her head and made a scoffing sound. “I mean, if someone lets you go ahead and blow them, and then they say they wanna take a break? Like, literally a couple minutes after you’re done? That ain’t good.”

</p><p>“Blow,” he said.

</p><p>She grinned a little at his confusion, unable to help herself.  “You know…”  She lifted a hand, curling her fingers into an O shape— made the universal hand-sign for a blow job: a jerking motion near her mouth— and then added, “Like the Whale?”

</p><p>He smirked, his eyes relaxed.  “<em>Hmmm</em>…”  And then he raised his eyebrows, even as his eyes grew softer… “In your man’s defense,” he said, “only a horse’s ass would turn away such an offering…”

</p><p>“Yeah, well… he turned me away fast enough, after…”  
</p><p>She’d been trying to make a joke, but it came out sounding bitter, and she could feel him studying her again— his humor gone.  She felt bad: she was spoiling the mood.  She was going to apologize, but he beat her to it…

</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said.

</p><p>“It’s okay,” she said.  And then she took a risk— needing to know, as long as it was already out there: all this talk of <em>exes</em>— needed to give him a chance to say something, draw a line. To stop her before she did something dumb, if he didn’t want—

</p><p>“Jaskier,” she said. “He… told me about the dragon.  What he said.  About you and Yennefer and—”  She glanced up at him, after saying the name: worried about what she’d see in his expression… but he was placid as ever, his eyes still soft in the flickering candlelight.  “Anyway, I’m sorry too.  At least I didn’t get smacked in the face with some grim prophecy like that.”  

</p><p>And then, when he didn’t respond— and because jokes were her go-to, in pretty  much any situation: “I mean, unless a beautiful redhead with amazing thighs counts as a grim prophecy…”

</p><p>That drew a lazy half-smile out of him… and a definitely-cheeky “<em>Hmmm</em>…” as he tilted his head, his eyelids heavy, as though he were imagining such a woman…

</p><p>“Oh my God,” she said, laughing, as she pushed a big splash of water at him.  “Shut up!” 

</p><p>His smile just grew wider— goading her— so she did it again: would have gotten him in the face, if he hadn’t tilted out of the way, and when she floated toward him, winding up for a third volley, he caught her wrist in his hand, his grip firm— holding her captive… and it was suddenly like a standoff, everything still: all joking gone— replaced by a breathless kind of heat as they stared each other down, hands dripping, faces dewy with sweat, just inches apart…

</p><p>She could see his yellow-gold, cat-like eyes moving over her face as his lips parted, both of them still waiting… the seconds passing without sound…

</p><p>He moved first, slowly… leaning in just enough to brush her lips…

</p><p>And then they both exhaled heavily, as their mouths came together, heaving into it, and she was already melting from the strength of his lips, and the intention she could feel in the heat of his kiss: a burning promise of more to come, if she wanted it…

</p><p>There was a warm, smoky taste to him, like he’d soaked up the fire that burned in the hearth, mixing with the flavor of the ale on his tongue, and she could feel the scratch of his stubble as he pulled her to him, his hand still gripping her wrist, tugging her closer… 

</p><p>She went willingly, her legs spreading out to straddle him— could feel his thighs, his cock bumping into her under the water— and he let go of her wrist, his hand dipping down to press against her back… slid down to feel the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips…

</p><p>There was something savory about the rumble in his throat as he hummed into her mouth— deeper this time— and she went ahead and did what she’d wanted to do in the lake: let her hand slide down his chest, dipping under the water between them…

</p><p>He was hard— already huge, and very, very human— and she could feel him smile into the kiss, going deeper still, with another vocalized breath, as she stroked him with her hand…

</p><p>Her entire body was thrumming with want— already rocking in his lap like an animal, her hand the only thing in the way— and she could have so easily just lifted up a little… could’ve worked herself down onto him in the water.  She was pretty sure he wanted her to: could feel that he was seconds away from pushing her hand off, so he could lift her up himself…

</p><p>She didn’t let him. With a near-heroic show of self-control, she pulled back— broke the kiss… let go, before the wave of need took over completely.  Not because she didn't want him:  oh, she wanted him.  And she meant to have him.  She just didn’t want to do it there, in the tub—  not with the water washing away her slick, or with half of that god-level gift of a body still hidden from her hungry, greedy eyes…

</p><p>If they were going to do this— and at this point, it was looking like a pretty sure thing— she wanted to go hard: wanted to touch him everywhere, feel everything… give into it with every animal urge she’d been feeling for two days…

</p><p>He was looking at her questioningly: wondering why she’d stopped, but following her lead. She was about to speak up: to ask him if he wanted to move it to the bed— when she heard that telltale, squeaky-awful creak of the hinges again, as someone pushed on the heavy wooden door from outside…

</p><p>She reacted instantly, without thinking: dunked herself completely below the water, even as she heard Jaskier’s voice calling out cheerfully…

</p><p>“Geralt?  You in here?  Where’s Darcy?”

</p><p>She hadn’t pulled in a good breath before going under, and the water wasn’t deep enough anyway: nowhere to hide— so she popped back up after just a few stupid seconds, sputtering as her eyes found him, over by the door.

</p><p>“I’m here,” she said, as she gave him a sheepish smile, along with a ridiculous little wave of her hand.  

</p><p>Geralt, meanwhile, had half turned in the tub to glare at his friend with what must have been some Defcon-1-level stink-eye, judging by the way Jaskier took a step back.

</p><p>“Oh,” said Jaskier.  “Sorry, I was just—” 

</p><p>He was holding his lute in his right hand, and he swiveled his head back toward the door, and then turned to address them again— gestured with the lute, behind himself.  “I’ll, uh…” And then he rolled his eyes, dropping the whole ‘flustered’ act. “You could put up a sign or something,” he muttered.

</p><p>He was making to leave again, but then Geralt was moving— standing up to step out of the tub, water sloshing everywhere…

</p><p>“Jas, wait,” he said.

</p><p>“Hmm?” said Jaskier, as he paused in the doorway.  He was wearing a relaxed sort of smile, completely unfazed by the sight of the other man encroaching upon him, naked and dripping wet. 

</p><p>Geralt paused by the big wooden chair— bent to scoop up his pile of dirty clothes, and then straightened up and offered the messy bundle to Jaskier.  “Could you see about getting my clothes cleaned?” he said.  “And see if Billy has scrounged up anything for Darcy to wear yet.”

</p><p>“I’m not your manservant, you know,” said Jaskier, sulking, but he shouldered the lute, freeing his hands, and took the dirty clothes without further argument.

</p><p>“Thanks,” said Geralt.

</p><p>“Thanks, Jas,” Darcy called out, still keeping a low-profile, neck-deep in the water.

</p><p>“At least latch the <em>door</em>,” said Jaskier, under his breath, as he left, pulling the door shut behind him.

</p><p>Geralt immediately did just that— worked the heavy, iron-like bolt across the gap between the door frame and the wall, securing it into the mounted catch: the medieval technology not much different from a modern barrel-bolt lock.

</p><p>And then he turned and was coming back toward her through the flickering candlelight, and this time Darcy didn’t even pretend to look away: was taking it all in, her eyes everywhere— feeling the urge to whisper <em>Happy Birthday to me</em>, though her birthday was over six months away…

</p><p>“You done bathing?” he said, the question rhetorical: he was already leaning down to scoop her up, out of the water…

</p><p>“Oh, hell yeah…”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was quite possibly the most erotic fuck of her life.

</p><p>Geralt of Rivia fucked like he was some kind of elemental force, unleashed in man-form solely to roll himself in waves against a wet and willing woman… corporeal for a limited time, destined to vanish back into a magical mist, or wherever the fuck he’d come from, and Darcy was all for it: ready to be his sacrifice… 

</p><p>His big, heavy body was everywhere— on top of her, around her, inside her— pressing her open, their skin sliding together in a slow, slippery drag, muscles still loose and languid from the warm, oily bath…

</p><p>He was filling her up, pressing and stretching with every wave, and the <em>sounds</em> he was making: <em>God</em>… she’d never heard anything like it from a man, and that alone would have been enough to make her moan and claw and gradually fall to pieces…

</p><p>His breathing was a hypnotizing, hazy rhythm: an open expression of shameless desire, and it was making her dizzy: like he was fucking her with his air, too, even as he pressed himself, thick and heavy, between her legs…

</p><p>She let herself be swept up in it, as he pulled in each deep breath through his nose— held it, his eyes falling shut as he pressed on her, hard— and then released it, letting it out in a wash of sensation, lips parting in a resonant sigh as he retreated again: like a dam breaking, over and over, as he luxuriated in the pleasure they were making together…

</p><p>His hands were caught up in it too— part of the same pulsing wave… gliding warm and wanting, expressive and needy… moving all over her skin… sliding up her thigh… pushing up on her leg as he dug in deeper… down to her hip on the crest of another wave, kneading the soft flesh of her ass as he held her steady, using the leverage to dig in… tracing her curves, telling her with a touch that she was everything soft and beautiful… and then growling as he laced his fingers into hers— hanging on, squeezing, as he pushed and pulled and then pushed again— matching her moan with a deeply satisfied <em>hmmm</em>, as he spread her even wider with the weight of his body…

</p><p>If a rolling ocean could fuck— lap at her, press her down into the hot, sinking sand, this was how it would feel— and she was riding it with him, her thighs spreading and clenching, gripping him, quivering, her hips canting up, working it just as hard, all of it instinct: feeling unhinged in the best kind of way…

</p><p>She wanted more of that noisy mouth: greedy for it, wanting to feel those sensual sounds pouring into her body— and she lifted up enough to reach for his lips, dragging her face against his stubble, and he gave her everything she needed, sinking into her as he sucked on her, slow and wet, tasting her flesh: her mouth, her neck, her breasts… anything he could reach, without breaking them apart…

</p><p>When they rolled, it was like a tussle, and she gave it her all when she landed on top: squeezing him hard with each lift of her hips, enjoying her turn— the way she made him smile and groan as she showed him what she could do. It was good for a while, but it was too soft— too slow— and they both knew it…

</p><p>She grinned, gasping, almost laughing in approval when he flipped her back over, pulling on her legs to put her where he needed her, and he wasted no time: humming a happy growl as he pushed back inside…

</p><p>She was gonna be sore, and it was so, so worth it....

</p><p>She tipped her head back, arching her body to meet him as she egged him on, wanting it hard, and he followed her cues— building his power until he was snapping his hips, baring his teeth, nothing gentle about it— and the headboard was bumping into the wall now: the candles flickering, a few of them snuffing out from the force of his rhythm, and she was trying to hang on, laughing and gasping and moaning, all at the same time— euphoric— when it all caught up in a rush, surging through her blood like a shuddering fire, exploding from her mouth in a strangled cry, and the shiver and flush of it fueled him— pushing him to chase his own…

</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” she gasped, as he drove into her, furious, vocalizing on every thrust, his rhythm starting to falter as he neared his end, and when he stilled, suddenly, pinning her hard with a roll of his hips, his hand fisted roughly into the bedding beside her, his groan was so lushly carnal that it set her off again, spasming around him as he pushed and spilled...

</p><p>There was a question there, in his eyes— those strange, animal eyes, the pupils large and dark now— when he finally let go, relaxing his hand and his hips: releasing all the tension with a heavy exhale… maybe asking if she was okay: if he’d harmed her in his fervor…

</p><p>She answered with a limp touch of her hand to his face and he blinked once, breathing heavy, and then lifted himself—  pulled out of her carefully so he could tip himself over, shaking the bed as he landed on his back beside her, both of them speechless, panting…

</p><p>She was trying to catch her breath— a little bit stunned, but smiling faintly— as her eyes fluttered open and then shut again, her body deliciously limp and useless, her legs still splayed open on the mess of the bed, all of the blankets and furs kicked down to the side, and it was the best kind of death…

</p><p>She finally managed to move— turned her head to the side, to look at him. His eyes were shut, but he wore a sleepy kind of smile— the satisfaction evident— and it made her unspeakably happy to see that confirmation: to know that it’d been that good for him too…

</p><p>He stayed flat on his back, like her: made no move to wrap himself around her— scoop her into his arms, cuddle her— but that was fine.  It felt right— perfect— just the way it was. 
</p><p>She turned her face back toward the ceiling, staring up at the wooden beams above them, feeling a woozy but happy kind of peace.

</p><p>“God, I needed that,” she said, the truth of it bursting out of her.  And then she grinned: “Thanks.”

</p><p>She could hear the smile in his gravelly response: “Likewise.”

</p><p>And then she was giddy, laughing a little: tried to control it— stifle it— which just made it worse…

</p><p>He rolled onto his side; propped his head on his hand, so he could see her. He looked as beautiful as ever— maybe even more so now: hair a mess, his face flushed and sweaty from all his hard work… 

</p><p>“What’s so funny,” he said, his expression relaxed: amused by her hilarity…

</p><p>She didn’t answer at first— was too busy enjoying the view: that pretty face gazing down at her, tenderness in his eyes— and she reached up to drag her finger through the deep dent in his chin.  

</p><p>“Jaskier,” she said, finally.  “You gave him your fucking ball of dirty clothes.” She giggled again. “<em>God</em>,” she said.  “I almost feel bad.  Where’s he gonna sleep?”

</p><p>He face softened and he leaned down to kiss her— just once, soft and slow, his hand holding her face steady— and then he released her lips and lay back again, pulling in a deep, restful breath as he stretched himself out, getting comfortable.  

</p><p>“Jas won’t have any trouble finding a bed,” he said. “We won’t see him again until morning.”

</p><p>She yawned then— a big one, coming on suddenly— and she talked her way through it:  “Good— good for him…”

</p><p>He was quiet, and when she looked over at him again, it looked like he was already falling asleep— his lips parting gently as his breathing evened out— and it was so funny, because the man was a witcher: a superhuman creature with magic and power, longevity and stamina… but at the end of the day, he was still just a man: all fucked-out and ready to sleep. 

</p><p>She sat up just enough to grab at the covers, pulling them up over both of their bodies.  She nestled herself in, finding a comfortable position beside him, and let her eyes fall shut.  Welcomed the sleep she’d been looking forward to all day, now made sweeter by the flood of endorphins that wanted to wash all her worries away.

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later, she was still lying there, awake.

</p><p>Her eyes were shut, but sleep hadn’t taken her.  She’d somehow missed her window to a blissful passing out, and now she was stuck back in her own head— thoughts swirling, feeling a little sad.

</p><p>It was a perversion, that she could be feeling anything but fantastic, in the wake of that mind-blowing, one-for-the-records, magical-mystery-tour of a sausage ride, but there it was: a quiet kind of melancholy— and she was trying to unravel it… to figure out why.  

</p><p>She should have been happy, should have been satisfied.  And she had been— at first.  But now that the dust had settled, she could feel it: a hollow, where she should have felt full. Something was missing, and it wasn’t the cuddling.

</p><p>The worst part was, she was still trying to lie to herself, when in truth, she knew <em>exactly</em> what the problem was.

</p><p>It was pretty simple: she wasn’t in love with this man.  

</p><p>In lust?  God, yeah.  Full of awe, and admiration, and gratitude? Absolutely.  But she wasn’t in love with him.  

</p><p>Not that she needed to be, to have some much-needed fun: to drench her body in the dizzying wash of pleasure that only a triple-A fuck could deliver.  And as good as it had been— she sure as hell didn’t regret it— it wasn’t enough to chase away the deep-down ache that was still there, waiting for her on the other side…

</p><p>It made her feel stupid, ungrateful.  And hell— she probably <em>would</em> fall in love with this man: no doubt to her own ruin, as Jaskier had hinted, if she knew she’d be here for the long term. But she wasn’t in love with him now.  

</p><p>She was in love with the man who kept invading her thoughts, like an indelible stamp— written into the pathways of her mind, always bubbling back up to the surface.  Her dark-haired broody soldier.  Her baby.  Her Bucky.

</p><p>There was no use denying it— pretending she didn’t know.  She was so in love with him— had it so bad— that it hurt, now that she’d opened up the box she’d been trying to hide it away in.

</p><p>It wasn’t something she could ignore, or change, or run from.  It was as true— as constant— as any natural fact: like the sun rising and setting, or the moon spinning around, tugging on the oceans, day after day…

</p><p>Whether he loved her back was irrelevant to her sad, yearning heart— she knew that now.  All she could control, at this point, was what she did with that certainty…

</p><p>She’d thought— or at least hoped— as she’d hurried to tell him, on that last, ill-fated day at the Tower, that he felt the same way… even if he hadn’t consciously realized it yet.

</p><p>She knew now that she’d believed it— in some nameless, visceral part of her spirit, before she’d even said it aloud in her own mind; that she’d already felt it, weeks ago: a shared, unspoken truth— in some of their quiet moments together, or in the breathless spaces in between their frantic coupling… moments when she’d seen his eyes soften and change… let go and feel…

</p><p>She knew what she needed to do.  She had to tell him— had to try.  She knew now that she wouldn’t feel any peace about it, until she did.

</p><p>But first, she had to get home.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She heard Geralt stir next to her— roll onto his side to face her, his thick legs tangling in the covers. “You all right?” he said softly.

</p><p>She was surprised: thought he’d fallen asleep long ago.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, keeping her own voice low.  “I’m great.” 

</p><p>“You’re quiet,” he countered, and she already knew him well enough to appreciate that he wasn’t one to complain about silence— recognized the comment for what it was: evidence that he could feel her inner ferment.  That he cared.

</p><p>“I’m just… I was thinking about my home,” she said, as she rolled onto her side to face him. She could see him clearly, even in the low light, and it was so odd, that he was still practically a stranger to her, in spite of the passion they’d shared… 

</p><p>It didn’t make much sense, but she felt she could trust him.  Talk to him, honestly.  That he’d listen with an open heart, if she chose to bare her own.

</p><p>“You miss it,” he said.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said.  “A little.” And then she tried to lighten it: “Shitty bathtubs and all…”

</p><p>He wasn’t buying the deflection:  “And your man.  The soldier.”

</p><p>She sighed, feeling bad that she was so transparent, and God: how rude of her—when only half an hour earlier…

</p><p>But when she looked into his soft, sleepy eyes, she could see no malice there, no hint of a bruised ego: only empathy.  Compassion.

</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said, anyway.  “I know it’s like… shitty to be thinking of someone else when….”  She ducked a little, embarrassed.

</p><p>“Darcy,” he said, almost smiling, and his eyes were so kind…

</p><p>She felt it like an ache in her chest: that deep, smoky voice of his, saying her name in a way that communicated so much, with just one word: told her that she didn’t have to apologize.  That he got it— understood it, all of it.  For a guy who was really fucking quiet most of the time, he actually wasn’t that bad at communicating, if he wanted to…

</p><p>She took a leap:  “Do you think she’ll be there?” she said.  “Yennefer?  At the Tower?”

</p><p>“I don’t know,” he said, and he rolled onto his back again, took his turn staring up at the ceiling— as though it had the answers to their troubles. “Probably,” he said, after a minute.  “Fate keeps pushing us together, in spite of what Borch— the dragon— had to say.”

</p><p>She was quiet, letting him speak.

</p><p>“Maybe all I’ve succeeding in doing, is to curse the both of us,” he said. “Me and Yen… with that damn, impetuous wish…”

</p><p>“Wish,” she said.  “You mean from the genie?  The one Jaskier told me about?”

</p><p>“Yes.”

</p><p>He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask him to— just gave into instinct, and scooted her body closer— finally going for that cuddle.  She nudged herself over, under the covers, and wrapped an arm and a leg around him.  It wasn’t romantic— wasn’t meant to be— but he accepted the gesture, the offer of comfort… breathed in deeply— relaxing, as she nestled in, his finger tracing idly along her back.

</p><p>She lay there, bathed in his warmth, playing with the hair on his chest.  “Do you want her to be there?” she said, after another long silence.  “Do you want to see her?”

</p><p>He made a little sound: just a short, thoughtful “<em>hm</em>.”  And then: “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

</p><p>They left it there: those the last words hanging in the air, as they finally drifted off together— neither happy nor sad, but a comfort to one another… and the honesty of that was as much of a relief as anything.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She was alone in the bed when she woke up, her head killing her. She moaned a little and swore— recognized that particular flavor of forehead pressure.  Not a hangover, luckily, but something almost as unpleasant: caffeine withdrawal.  

</p><p>She sat up a little, holding the furs to her chest, and blinked, looking around the room.  It looked like Geralt had rekindled the fire in the hearth, and she could smell that leftover stew in the pot.

</p><p>“You’re awake,” he said, startling her— his voice coming from behind her.  She twisted around to look— realized he was kneeling on floor, on the other side of the bed.  He pushed himself up to standing, and she could see that he was already dressed, his hair combed, his long bangs neatly tied behind his head.

</p><p>“What were you doing down there?” she asked.  “Morning prayers?”

</p><p>“More like… meditation,” he said.  And then, without explaining further, he said,  “You should get up. Get dressed. Jaskier dropped some clothes off…”

</p><p>“Jas was here?” she said, sitting up a little more.  She was still covering herself, feeling a bit more self-conscious, now that it was morning— the fuck-haze of the night before long gone…  “God, I must have been out of it…”

</p><p>“I need to get Roach,” he said, as he walked around the end of the bed, heading toward the table by the door.  “But I’ll send Jaskier back to get you.  He, uh… he’s having breakfast with a friend, but he should be… done soon.”  

</p><p>Darcy snorted.  “Breakfast, huh?”

</p><p>Geralt had gathered up a pile of what looked like mostly-black garments, and brought them back over to her— set them down on the foot of the bed. “There’s… a pot behind there, if you need it,” he added, titling his head toward what looked like an old-timey boudoir privacy screen, in the opposite corner.

</p><p>“Okay,” she said, not thrilled by the sound of that. “Hey, you guys don’t have anything like coffee, do you?  I’ve got one hell of a caffeine headache coming on… Day Two now, cold turkey…”

</p><p>“I don’t know what any of that means,” he said, shaking his head.

</p><p>“Well, fuck,” she said, gathering the covers around herself a little bit more.

</p><p>“Is it important?”

</p><p>“God, yes,” she said, as she leaned forward to pick through the pile of clothes, and then looked up and realized he was actually worried.  “I mean, it’s okay,” she said quickly. “I’m not gonna <em>die</em> or anything.  I’m just… my head’s gonna hurt, and I’m gonna be a little cranky.  Or maybe a <em>lot</em> cranky…”

</p><p>When he didn’t comment, she added, “It’s a… drug people use.  Like medicine. Mostly in the morning.  Helps you wake up.  Focus.  Pretty much everyone where I’m from is addicted to it, in some form or another…”

</p><p>“Hm,” he said.  “I’ve heard of a brew used by the Zerrikanian traders, that matches that description.  But you won’t find it here, in Szhlístik.”

</p><p>“Sleestak?” she said, purposely mispronouncing it. “That’s the name of this place?” She made a scoffing sound. “I guess it fits.  Though they coulda just gone ahead and called it <em>Shit</em>-stack, if the people at the Whale were representative…”

</p><p>He was still standing there, concern on his face— not responding to her joke.  “How badly do you need it,” he said.  “Your elixir.”

</p><p>“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” she said.  “The headache sucks, but it’s temporary.  I’ve been through it before.”  She scooted up in the bed— gathered the stack of clothes into her arms.  “Honestly?  If I had to choose between a cup of coffee and a toothbrush right now? I’d probably take the headache, and go for the toothbrush.”  She rolled her eyes when he still didn’t move.  “Go,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Go get Roach.  I’ll be fine.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It took her a while to figure out all the different pieces, fastenings, and laces, but by the time Jaskier knocked on the door, twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready to go.  She’d even managed to quickly shovel in some more of the leftover stew— spooning up mouthfuls straight out of the pot, while she was getting dressed. 

</p><p>Billy had sized her up pretty well: the black suede knee-length wrap-skirt fit just fine, especially as it had a range of fastening widths, to accommodate different hips. The shirt— a big, loose, long-sleeved thing made of dyed-black linen-like fabric— also fit, though it seemed a bit impractical: it was off-the-shoulder, and had a large peekaboo cutout that seemed to serve no purpose other than to show off her cleavage.  At least the garment was baggy enough to accommodate her ample boobage; it seemed to be a sort of one-size-fits-all kind of deal. The ebony leather lace-up exterior corset— much like the one Billy had been wearing the night before— was what cinched everything into place, from her hipbones up to her breasts, and served as a bit of a chest-lifter-upper.  She pulled up the laces as tightly as her body allowed, without sacrificing comfort, and then buckled the belt that wrapped around the waist, securing everything in place.

</p><p>There was a set of fine, hand-knit, thigh-high hose for her legs, and she sat down on the edge of the bed to pull them on, one by one— buttoned the little straps at the top that kept them up where they were supposed to be.  She stood up then, looking around for a pair of shoes, and spied a little pile of several types of footwear, over by the door— apparently Billy had provided a range of sizes to choose from.  To her delight, the best fit turned out to be the kick-ass leather boots.  They were a soft, dark suede, the color of espresso; above-the-knee, with a low heel: good for walking. Best of all, they were broken-in enough to feel completely comfortable from her very first step.

</p><p>Truth be told, she felt like a bit of a badass in the outfit: tough, with just the right amount of slutty.  The only thing missing was makeup: she was used to wearing quite a bit of eye-and-lip color most days, and felt a little bit naked, with nothing at all on her face.  She went over to the bathtub and grabbed up the wooden comb and the vial of oil, and at least combed through her hair, making it sleek and shiny and fragrant.  She’d just finished up, when there was a knock on the door. 

</p><p>“Darcy?”  It was Jaskier, come to fetch her.

</p><p>“Yup,” she said, as she moved to open it.  “I’m ready.”

</p><p>“Whoa,” he said, his eyes widening, stepping back in pantomimed shock, as she threw the door open, revealing herself.  

</p><p>He shook his head a little as his face took on an expression of clear approval.  He held out his hand, palm toward her, and drew a wide, vertical line in the air between them, from her head to her toes, as he openly gaped at her, making her giggle with delight.  She felt like she was on <em>Queer Eye</em>, getting props for her new look… 

</p><p>“It suits you,” he said, nodding, as he put his hands on his hips, still taking it all in.  “Excellent choice.”

</p><p>“I didn’t choose it,” she said, but then she vamped a little anyway, showing off the boots with a couple of dramatically-struck poses…

</p><p>“Well, you wear it well,” he said, with a grin.

</p><p>“Thanks, Jas,” she said, and then she bumped him with her hip.  “How was breakfast?”

</p><p>“Delectable,” he said, dramatically. “Would have stayed for seconds, but Geralt wanted to get a move on…”  And then he wagged his eyebrows.  “How was <em>yours?</em>”

</p><p>“I had leftovers for breakfast,” she said.  “Like, literally.”  She grinned.  “But dinner was a goddamned delight…”

</p><p>She was looking around the room, seeing if they’d left anything, but Geralt had already taken all the gear.  “I guess I’m ready to go,” she said. “Is Billy up yet? I want to thank her for the clothes.”

</p><p>“Don’t think so, no,” he said, as they left the room together. 

</p><p>“Damn,” she said.  “She’s the only person I wanted to say good-bye to, in this shit-stain of a town.”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They met up with Geralt just outside the stables.  He was waiting for them there, with Roach— had all of his gear on again, his steel sword sheathed against his back, and seemed impatient to leave.

</p><p>Darcy couldn’t blame him: the town was bustling around them— people pushing by, heading to the market… some of them looking suspiciously at Geralt as they went by.  Others outright sneered, their eyes dropping to the witcher’s medallion he refused to hide.

</p><p>“About time,” he said to Jaskier, who handed him the other saddlebag.  “What happened; you stay for seconds?”  He glanced at Darcy, and she could see the fleeting look of appreciation on his face, as he took in her appearance, before he refocused his attention on securing the bag to Roach.

</p><p>“She looks amazing, right?” said Jaskier, who hadn’t missed the look.

</p><p>“It’ll do,” he said.

</p><p>Jaskier rolled his eyes.  “It’s one of life’s mysteries to me,” he said, “how you enjoy any female attention at all.”  He shouldered his lute, and his own personal bag.  “Are we ready?”

</p><p>“I am,” said Darcy.  “Let’s blow this pop-stand.”

</p><p>Geralt looked down at her then, finally breaking through his own grumpy demeanor, as he wound up the excess length of Roach’s lead. “Blow?” he said, like the smart-ass she knew him to be.

</p><p>“Different kind of <em>blow</em>,” she said, grinning. 

</p><p>They exited the town at the opposite end from the side they’d come in on, ignoring the hostile looks on the faces of the townsfolk they passed.  Darcy could hear some of them mutter words like ‘<em>freak</em>’ and ‘<em>mutant</em>’ and ‘<em>good riddance</em>’, as they made their way to the wooden gates, which stood open, leading back to the open road.  

</p><p>When they finally stepped through, leaving the town and its lovely people behind, Darcy turned around for one last look.  “So long, Shit-stack,” she called out, as she stepped backwards, and then she flipped the entire town an emphatic double bird.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The walk to the Tower was much like the first day’s trek: Geralt was quiet— kept to himself, walking a bit ahead with Roach, while Darcy and Jaskier brought up the rear.  

</p><p>It was a little odd, maybe, that nothing had really changed between them; the passion of the night before may as well have been a dream, if not for the subtle, fading ache between her legs.  Not that she expected anything; after their talk, it was pretty clear where they both stood— both of them in love with somebody else.  

</p><p>She was fine with it— cheerful, even, in spite of her headache: maybe a lingering effect of being so thoroughly and capably seen to by such a fantastic specimen of a man.  As far as a friends-with-benefits situation went, you could do a lot worse than Geralt of Rivia…

</p><p>About an hour outside of town, during one of their little breaks, she decided she wanted another souvenir— went over to Roach and the saddlebags, and retrieved her phone. After powering it on— again doing the ridiculous-but-instinctive check for cell coverage— she brought up the camera app, and stood back a little, doing her best to be discreet, while still managing to get Geralt’s leather-clad ass perfectly framed in the screen, as he bent over to fill the waterskin in a noisy little stream.

</p><p>“What is that?” said Jaskier, looking over her shoulder, after he heard the artificial shutter-sound of the picture being taken.  “What did you do?”

</p><p>She showed him, bringing up the picture of Geralt’s ass, and couldn’t help cackling at the gaping-mouthed delight on his face.

</p><p>“Oh, that is— that is <em>brilliant</em>,” he said.  “How long does it last?  Does it fade over time?”

</p><p>“No,” she said.  “It’s forever, if I back it up— save it to another format, back home.”

</p><p>“Wizardy,” he said.

</p><p>“Nah,” she said.  “Just technology.  Everyone has one of these, back home.” And then:  “Hey— you think <em>that’s</em> cool…”  She put the phone in selfie mode, and then showed him, leaning in so that he was sharing the screen with her— made an exaggerated duck-face at the camera…

</p><p>Jaskier chirped— no, shrieked— with delight at the sight of himself, live, on the screen, prompting Geralt to sigh loudly as he re-stowed the filled waterskin. 

</p><p>“I need more souvenirs,” said Darcy, as she snapped a few selfies— both of them patently ignoring Geralt’s disapproving stink-cloud.  “I was gonna take those coins back with me, but I lost them all when my pants disappeared…”

</p><p>“You need another coin?” said Jaskier.  “Here,” he said, as he dug into his bag— pulled out a single golden coin, and flipped it to her.  

</p><p>“<em>Toss a coin to your witcher</em>,” they both started singing in unison, automatically, and then they dissolved into laughter, making Geralt roll his eyes…

</p><p>“Did the two of you get into the ale?” he said.

</p><p>“There’s ale?” said Darcy.  She looked at Jaskier, who shrugged his shoulders.

</p><p>“Billy left us a bottle,” said Geralt.  “A parting gift.”

</p><p>“News to me,” said Jaskier, the face of innocence.  “Where’d you put it?”

</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” said Geralt, ignoring the question, and then he tromped off into the woods, presumably to take a leak.

</p><p>“Oh, hey—” said Darcy, while they were waiting. “I just got the best idea. Get your lute ready.”  

</p><p>She switched the phone to video mode, while he swung the instrument around to his chest, and then she looked up at him, stepping back a bit, to fit more of him into the frame.  

</p><p>“Okay,” she said.  “Do the song again. Go.”

</p><p>He grinned, happy to oblige— loving the attention— and she pressed ‘record’, just as he began to sing and play with gusto. She recorded a good ten seconds of it, before she held up her index finger, pointing toward the sky as she spun it around. It was a cue to wrap it up, and somehow he guessed her meaning— ably improvised a quick, ad-lib finish, with a little flourish and a wink…

</p><p>“Perfect!” she said, as she clicked it off.  “Okay. Check it out,” she said as she held the screen toward him, so he could see, and then pressed play… cranked up the volume… 

</p><p>“Is that me?” he said, as the sound of his recorded voice came through over the phone’s little speaker…  “Good lord, is that how I really <em>sound?</em>” he said.

</p><p>“You sound great,” she said.  “It’s just always horrifying, the first time you hear yourself on a recording.  It happens to everyone; trust me.”  

</p><p>The playback finished, and she swiped back, through the selfies, wanting to show him more.  He chuckled as she again went past the picture of Geralt’s ass; then to the quick shot she’d snapped of him at their campsite, and finally to the one she’d taken of the two men from a distance, when she’d first come upon them in the wood.

</p><p>“God, I look horrid,” he said, as he leaned his face in close, to peer at his image.

</p><p>“No you don’t,” she said, scoffing.  “You always look nice.”

</p><p>He glanced up at her just long enough to give her an adorable smile.  “You mean that?”

</p><p>“Absolutely,” she said. 

</p><p>He reached his own finger in— swiped on the screen a couple more times himself.

</p><p>“Who’s that?” he said.  “She’s lovely…”

</p><p>“That’s Jane,” she said, leaning in to see. “My best friend, back home.” She’d taken the picture of her boss posing outside of the Sanctum Santorum— the last picture she’d snapped before getting sucked away.

</p><p>“So that’s in… New York?” he said.

</p><p>“Yeah.”

</p><p>He swiped again, and said, “Whoa,” and turned the phone on its side, instinctively trying to adjust to the landscape view.  “Who’s that?” he said appreciatively.

</p><p>She took the phone back from him, already knowing what it was going to be, before she looked at it herself: the last picture she’d taken of Bucky.

</p><p>He’d fallen asleep on her couch, a week before everything had gone to shit— the <em>only</em> time he’d fallen asleep at her place, other than that one bad time with the taser-gun.  It’d been fine— he’d woken without incident after only twenty minutes— but he’d still seemed shaken that it’d happened at all.  He’d startled awake and had almost snapped at her, flustered and disoriented; had gathered his things and left, and then he’d been gone for a week— away on that mission.  

</p><p>She was staring at the photo now, her chest tight, feeling like her eyes were going to well up with tears. It felt like she hadn’t seen him in a year….

</p><p>He was shirtless, his lips parted, his metal hand resting on his belly, right on top of that line of dark hair that disappeared into his pants, which were unbuttoned, the zipper pulled down an inch…

</p><p>He was sexy as hell… looked good enough to eat.  But more than that, he simply looked peaceful…

</p><p>She was trying to speak— to respond to Jaskier, but she couldn’t make the words come.  She was saved by Geralt, who reappeared, emerging from the woods. 

</p><p>“We should go,” he said, his voice steady, firm.

</p><p>“Yup,” she said, with a put-on brightness, as she ripped her eyes away from the screen.  Clicked the phone off, and then pressed her thumb on the side button until it powered down completely.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was early afternoon when the wooded area they’d been traversing all morning began to gradually thin out, and then, all it once, it simply ended, and they found themselves at the edge of a vast, rocky plain. There were mountains on the horizon, and when Jaskier stopped to point, Darcy followed his finger and spied what was apparently their destination: the only manmade structure, as far as the eye could see.  It was a grey stone tower, just barely visible at this distance, set against the dark backdrop of heavily-forested slopes. 

</p><p>“How far away is that?” she said, as she held her hand above her eyes, shielding them from the sun, which was at its zenith in the sky.  After hours in the shady woods, being in its brightness felt like she was being forced to watch a star go supernova.  “If I get stuck here, I’m so totally inventing sunglasses,” she muttered.

</p><p>“Maybe two hours,” said Geralt.  “Less, if we manage to do more than stroll.”

</p><p>Jaskier made a face at the man’s back, understanding that the dig was meant for him: he tended to slow down when he was singing…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They made good time— Jaskier kept his lute stowed— and the sun wasn’t anywhere near setting as they made their approach to the little winding road that led up to the impressive-looking edifice.

</p><p>To Darcy’s eyes, it was a stereotypical mage’s tower— like something you’d see in a vintage role-playing game.  It fit perfectly into the landscape, set atop the highest crest of the forested foothills, against a backdrop of the taller, snow-capped mountains behind it.

</p><p>The tower itself was your standard architectural phallus: a single, tall, stone-brick cylinder, ringed with jutting, defensive brattices all around the shaft about halfway up.  The top was a simple dome, sat atop an open-air upper floor with evenly-spaced arched cutouts.  

</p><p>The entire complex was clearly built with an eye to defense: protected on three sides by sheer cliff faces, with irregular, rough-stone taluses sloping to the narrow strip of ground ringing the base.  The solitary entrance was accessible solely from a long, narrow, and gently winding path that snaked its way up the steep hill, giving every chance for those approaching to be taken down by archers or magic or who-knows-what…

</p><p>Darcy was glad they were coming at it while the sun was still high in the sky: it was foreboding enough, even in broad daylight.  If this had been a movie, it would have been obvious that they were walking right into a trap.

</p><p>There was no sign of life along the winding road, nor any indication, during their approach, of anyone watching them from inside the tower.  For all they knew, it could have been abandoned— a historical site; a destination for tourists.  That was, until they reached the top, when they could see that a narrow drawbridge, spanning a nauseatingly-deep chasm between themselves and the entrance, had already been lowered— as though they were expected.

</p><p>They crossed the bridge and came to a stop in front of a set of thick wooden doors, reinforced with blackened metal plates.  Before any of them could even discuss the topic of whether they should knock, the doors swung open slowly, folding smoothly inward, seemingly on their own.

</p><p>“What the fuck?” said Darcy, quietly.

</p><p>“She’s here,” said Geralt, and he let out a long, quiet breath through his nose, his lips pressed together in a serious line.

</p><p>Darcy glanced over to Jaskier, who actually looked a bit nervous.  “Maybe I’ll just wait outside,” he said.  “Guard Roach.”

</p><p>“Roach will be fine,” said Geralt.  He was already tying her lead to the hanging metal ring of a sturdy, iron-like hitching post that stood off to the side.  He unfastened the saddlebag that had Darcy’s things inside: her phone, and the little dormant amphora— and slipped it over his shoulder.

</p><p>“Don’t leave me,” whispered Darcy, not caring that she sounded pathetic, as she looked over to Jaskier.  She held out her hand to him, silently asking him to take it. To stay with her. 

</p><p>The anxiety was really hitting her full-on now, as she realized that she was extremely nervous about meeting this woman… this <em>sorceress</em>.  The woman whom both Jaskier and Geralt himself— the most powerful person she’d encountered in this world, thus far— had spoken of with a mixture of anxiety and awe.  The woman who’d burned an entire bath-house to the ground over a single rude remark.

</p><p>And here was Darcy— an outsider, a nobody, a stranger.  A stranger who, only just the night before, had enthusiastically fucked her soulmate’s brains out. Would she be able to tell?  See it written on them?  God, what if she could <em>smell</em> it?  Darcy had done a perfunctory washing-up with the basin of cold water and the rag she’d found, back at the brothel, but it’d certainly been no substitute for a proper morning-after shower…

</p><p>Jaskier must have been able to see the fear written on her face, because he nodded and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly in spite of his own evident trepidation, and then they stepped together into the interior of the tower, silently following Geralt’s lead.

</p><p><em>Lead</em>, it turned out, was a strange way to put it, as Geralt himself seemed to be walking as though led— pulled along by some invisible, whispering vapor— as they paced their way slowly up a curving set of stairs, one edge flush with the wall, round and round, ascending to the upper levels of the tower.

</p><p>They bypassed several landings, which were laid with simple furnishings and lit by the natural sunlight still burning through the arched windows set into the walls.    There were all number of everyday items set out on the tables— plates, pitchers… bowls of fruit.  Rolls of parchment.  Books.  Everything had the feel of recent occupation, and yet they’d not seen nor heard a single other soul.  No sign of life— human or otherwise. If Darcy hadn’t known better— hadn’t been able to feel it, like a thrumming vibration in her chest: the certainty that something was waiting for them, up above— she would have assumed something bad had happened there: that the occupants had left in a hurry…

</p><p>When they reached the top floor— the open-air lantern, with its high, domed roof above— Geralt came to a gentle stop, his head tilting almost imperceptibly to the side, as his voice rumbled out what was the simplest of greetings… and yet, in which, to anyone with half an ear, could be heard the depth of an eternity of unspoken feeling…

</p><p>“Hello, Yen.”

</p><p>The woman was standing alone, in the center of the circular room.  Unlike the landings they’d passed, it was bare of any furniture or decoration, so that the sole point of focus was the woman herself.  Her eyes were cast down, looking at the fingertips of her own right hand, which she held up at chest-height.

</p><p>She was tall and slender, though certainly not skinny— somehow managing to be both slim and voluptuous at the very same time.  She had loose, gently waving jet-black hair, matched by a full-length gown of the same color.  The dress, which lay against her body like a second-skin, was made of a multitude of shiny strips of smooth black leather, outlining windows of fine, sheer mesh.  The effect was like a grand-scale lace, though there was nothing delicate about it.  The strips wrapped around her shape like style-lines— tracing her curves and the contours of her breasts, her hips, her thighs… 

</p><p>The dress was so far beyond Darcy’s attire, in terms of both sex-appeal and badassery, that Darcy felt, in comparison, like she was wearing a cheap Halloween costume…

</p><p>The woman’s face— her skin flawless, the color of golden-almond chai— was startlingly beautiful… like a punch in the gut: an inarguable truth. Her eyelids were swathed with a deep, smoky blue, her lashes and brows enhanced with ebony kohl.  Her full, perfect lips were the color of fresh blood.

</p><p>Darcy could now see that the woman’s eyes were trained on a tiny, turquoise-colored beetle that was crawling on her hand.  She rotated the hand slowly, her eyes following the insect as it sped vainly over the surface of her skin, seeking a path out, but too intellectually-limited to find it.  She finally pursed those deep-red lips and blew on the creature gently, which prompted it to spread its vibrant, shiny-metallic, rigid outer wings to expose the delicate inner ones.  It lifted itself up and took flight, and then it disappeared, escaping through one of the arched openings in the wall.

</p><p>“Geralt,” she said, without lifting her eyes.  She was still gazing at her hand, as though lost in thought.  She dropped it finally, and lifted her face to give a look of utter dismissiveness to Jaskier.  “I see you’re still traveling with this one.”

</p><p>“Yennefer,” said Jaskier, with a clearly-sarcastic smile.  If he’d had fangs, he would have bared them. “Still surrounded by your adoring fans, I see,” he added, as he gazed about the empty room. 

</p><p>“And who’s this,” she said, finally letting her eyes land on Darcy.  Her voice was taut, precise— like the perfectly-plucked strings of an impeccably-tuned instrument, each note sounding clear and true, yet brimming with the tension of raw, willfully-restrained power…  

</p><p>Her eyes, Darcy could now see, were an unearthly, startling shade of purple…

</p><p>Darcy tried to answer, but she fell speechless, feeling she’d been struck dumb.  The tension— the energy in the room… the brooding, palpable, almost angry chemistry between Geralt and this woman— was so powerful, that it almost made her teeth chatter, and she felt a rush of fear: a voice inside, saying <em>what in the ever-loving fuck was I thinking, fooling around with this man?</em>  She’d been playing with fire, and she hadn’t even known it…

</p><p>“Her name’s Darcy,” said Geralt, and the gentle calm in his voice helped settle her shaky interior, just slightly— enough to keep her from visibly shivering under the weight of the woman’s stare, which was somehow as vicious as it was indifferent.

</p><p>“Jaskier and I came upon her in the forest… a day’s walk from the Mug Donr,” he said.  “She’s… not from around here.  Came here by some magical means.”

</p><p>“I see,” she said.  

</p><p>“What are you doing here, anyway,” he said, looking around.  “Where are the other mages?”

</p><p>“On holiday,” she said, her eyes never leaving him.

</p><p>“Holiday,” he repeated, with an edge of skepticism, and he licked his lips, holding her gaze…

</p><p>She stared back at him placidly— unblinking— until suddenly she grinned, laughing a little, like it was all so funny...

</p><p>“What brings you here?” she said then, switching back to a casual tone.  “You and… Darcy.”

</p><p>“She needs help getting back,” said Geralt.  “We thought—”

</p><p>“Why not simply send <em>yourself</em> back?” she interrupted, her eyes now flicking to Darcy.  They stayed locked onto her— those deep purple irises— and Darcy suddenly felt like the beetle: like she was being gazed upon with curiosity, and any second now she was going to be blown away…

</p><p>“I, um… I’m not magic,” she said, hating the way she fumbled for the words.  “I’m just—”  And then she stopped, because of course the other woman— Yennefer— probably already knew that.  Was toying with her— testing her mettle.  

</p><p>“I got here by accident,” she said, and she crossed her arms over her chest.  “I’ve got this thing: this… little jar-thing.  It teleported me into the forest, but it’s out of charge or something?  Geralt thought maybe—”

</p><p>Geralt was already digging through the bag, pulling out the cloth-wrapped amphora, and he unwrapped it— handed it over to Yennefer.  “It was made in Induzia,” he said, helpfully.

</p><p>Yennefer accepted the little vessel, and after turning it over in her hands once, her entire demeanor changed— dropping the intensity entirely.  “Oh,” she said, and a little smile played gently on her lips. “Dumped you in the forest, you say?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” said Darcy.  “I started walking and—”  She glanced at Jaskier, who was standing next to her with his hands on his hips, glaring at Yennefer with open irritation.  “I heard Jaskier singing, and—”  She stopped, realizing there was no need to recount any of the story. “Do you know how it works?  Can you fix it, or—”

</p><p>“It’s meant to take the user precisely where they need to be,” she said.  “I can reset it, if you like.  If your business here is done, then it should restore you to your proper place.”  Her eyes flicked between Darcy and Geralt. “Is your business done?”

</p><p>If Darcy didn’t know any better, she’d say the woman was amused now, and it wasn’t exactly a nice feeling, to be on the other end of that.  Geralt apparently didn’t appreciate it either; he actually turned to the side— made one of his little “<em>hm</em>” noises— irritated: almost as though he’d been scolded, and didn’t like it.

</p><p>Jaskier, for his part, thought it was hilarious— had started cackling almost immediately, only stopping when everyone, including Yennefer, turned to glare at him.

</p><p>“Yeeeeaaah,” said Darcy, and she was mortified when she felt her face flushing pink.  “Definitely done. I, uh… I need to get back.”

</p><p>Yennefer was still holding the little vessel in her hands, and as Darcy watched, it began to glow again— to once again light up with that strange, flickering, firefly effect.  “It should work again now,” she said.  She held it out— prompting Darcy to take it.

</p><p>“Will it— I mean, does it happen right away?” said Darcy, looking at it uneasily.  She had to fight the instinct to take a step back— felt like it was all happening too fast.  “As soon as I touch it? It did before, I think.” She joked then, trying to push back against her own rising tension.  “Don’t I have to click my heels together three times, or…”

</p><p>“You have enchanted footwear?” said Yennefer, frowning, and Darcy realized that the woman was serious.

</p><p>“No, it’s—”  Her mind flashed to the ending of <em>The Wizard of Oz</em>— to a tearful Dorothy, leaving her new friends behind, chanting ‘<em>There’s no place like home</em>…’

</p><p>“Never mind,” she said, and she swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat…

</p><p>Yennefer was still holding out the tiny, glowing vessel.

</p><p>“Can you… um.  Can you just wait a second?” said Darcy, and then she turned to Jaskier, and grabbed both of his hands in hers, suddenly feeling overwhelmed— not prepared for the abruptness of it, even though this had been the aim all along.

</p><p>She wanted to say something big to him— something that would express just how much she’d come to love this cheerful, talented, sassy-assed gift of a man in just a few short days, but all that came out was, “Fuck, I hate goodbyes…”

</p><p>“Do you have your coin?” he said.  “Your souvenir.”

</p><p>She shook her head.  “It’s still in the bag, with my phone.”

</p><p>Geralt was already getting it for her, and she turned and took the phone and the coin, unable to meet his eyes and he handed them over…

</p><p>She was getting emotional— could feel the tears welling up.

</p><p>“The ale,” said Jaskier, suddenly.  “You should have it.”  He twisted his body to access his own shoulder bag, and pulled out what looked like a wine bottle, its cork still firmly in place.

</p><p>“You had it the whole time, you big liar,” she said, erupting in laughter even as one big, fat tear escaped and landed on her chest.  She quickly swiped at her eyes, not wanting to cry. “Fuck, I could’ve used that for my headache, you ass.”

</p><p>“Take it,” said Jaskier, softly. 

</p><p>She took the bottle— gave him a feeble smile— and then turned to face Geralt, having no idea how to do this… how to say goodbye to him. Words weren’t going to be enough.  She wanted to hug him— give him a goodbye kiss, even— but she wasn’t about to do <em>that</em>… not in front of Mistress Magic over there…

</p><p>“So,” she said awkwardly, and then switched the bottle into her left hand so that she could reach out with her right, as though offering a handshake— a ludicrous way to end it, but there it was…

</p><p>He glanced down to her hand and stepped forward— reached out and grasped her wrist, bypassing her little hand, which automatically tightened around as much of his thick forearm as it could span. 

</p><p>“Goodbye, Darcy.”

</p><p>“Bye,” she said, looking up at him, wishing she could do more, and she was going to make a fool of herself any second now, so she released him, quickly, and then turned back to Yennefer, trying to be strong.

</p><p>She laughed oddly, abruptly, and then somehow all the emotion made her feel bold.  More like herself.  Like Darcy-fucking-Lewis, who, as far as this world was concerned, was a self-respecting New York whore, who’d survived a bloedzuiger attack and told the entire town of Szhlístik to suck it.

</p><p>“He loves you, you know,” she said loudly, not caring whom it bothered for her to say so. “Big time,” she added.  She glanced to Geralt, who was pointedly aiming his eyes at a stone brick somewhere on the floor, behind Yennefer— looking like he wanted to crawl beneath it…

</p><p>“Fuck the prophecy, or whatever it was.  You’re here now, together.”  She was looking between the two of them, almost feeling angry.  “Don’t be so <em>fucking</em> stubborn.”

</p><p>“<em>Thank</em> you,” said Jaskier, rolling his eyes in appreciation, and then, “What?  <em>Someone</em> had to say it,” when Geralt turned his head to give him one of his death-glares.

</p><p>Darcy turned to Jaskier— smiling now, even as her heart was breaking a little.  “C’mere,” she said, and then she pulled the man into a big, genuine hug, squeezing him hard, almost choking up again when he held her just as tightly…

</p><p>And then, laughing a little, because she was still, apparently, stuck on <em>The Wizard of Oz</em>, she whispered, “I think I’m gonna miss you most of all…”

</p><p>She released him— wiped her eyes again, and then looked around.  “Okay,” she said.  “I’m ready.”  But then she thought of once last thing— put up her hand quickly— “Wait!”

</p><p>She put down the bottle of ale, and then powered on her phone and pulled up the camera app.  “One more picture,” she said.  “Everyone together— right there,” she said, waving the phone toward Yennefer.  “Come on.”

</p><p>The men were reluctant to obey— held their ground, while Yennefer spoke under her breath, with a bit of disdain: “What are we doing?”

</p><p>“It’s a picture-maker,” said Jaskier, clearly enjoying that he knew something Yennefer didn’t.  “It’s not magic; it’s technology.”

</p><p>“Come on,” said Darcy, gesturing to the three of them to squish closer together.  “For fuck’s sake, it’s not gonna kill you.”  And then, once they’d reluctantly moved closer together, she aimed the phone at them, holding it in landscape mode to fit all of them in.  “Say cheese,” she called out, her thumb hovering over the virtual button.

</p><p>“Cheese?” said Geralt, his eyebrows furrowing.

</p><p>“Oh my God,” she said, sagging a little.  “Like this: <em>Cheeeeeese</em>… It makes you smile. Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud and just <em>do</em> it.”

</p><p>“Stick in the mud,” repeated Jaskier.  “Oh, I <em>like</em> that.  It’s <em>perfect</em>.” He glanced at Geralt, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he smiled, biting his lower lip.
 
</p><p>“Come on,” she said, trying to get them to focus.  “Do it:  <em>Cheeeeeese</em>…” 

</p><p>Jaskier was happy to oblige, of course— gave her a big, bust-out, grab-life-by-the-balls smile as he repeated the word.  Yennefer, completely deadpan, said, “I’m not doing it,” while Geralt just folded his arms over his chest and glowered.

</p><p>“You guys are the worst,” said Darcy, as she took the picture.  “I bet you’re a real hit at parties.”

</p><p>“Let me see,” said Jaskier, as soon as she’d lowered the phone— already coming toward her to see the picture. “Brilliant,” he said again, as he looked at it, shaking his head in wonder.

</p><p>She shut the phone down then. Looked over at Geralt and Yennefer, who were still standing side-by-side, with different flavors of broodiness on their faces.  They looked so right together— so perfectly-matched— that it made her heart warm to see it. Some people just belonged together— and who was anyone to say otherwise?  Even a dragon…

</p><p>“Okay,” she said, and let out a big, fortifying breath.  She leaned over to grab up the bottle of ale and then nodded to Yennefer.  “I’m ready.”

</p><p>Yennefer held out the little amphora again, and this time Darcy took it quickly, before she could chicken out…  

</p><p>The clay began to heat up, and then there was a rushing sound, like wind blowing past her ears and it began to get louder...

</p><p>She took one last look at Geralt, and there it finally was: a tiny, barely-there smile— soft, just for her…

</p><p>“Bye Darcy!” said Jaskier with a wave.  “Safe journey!”

</p><p>“If you see Stephen,” Yennefer suddenly called out, “tell him I’ve missed our discussions.”

</p><p>Geralt looked comically disturbed, as Darcy watched him turn his head, to give Yennefer a sharp look. “Who’s Stephen?”

</p><p>Yennefer just laughed aloud— pleased with herself— and it was the last thing Darcy heard before the roar in her ears became deafening, and then she felt the yank, just like before: a ripping— up and out of reality— and then she was tumbling again through the darkness…

</p><p>Going home.

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hey!  You there!  You all right?”

</p><p>Something was touching her face— a tickle…

</p><p>“Knock it <em>off</em>,” said the voice.  It was a woman— tough-sounding… or maybe that was just the accent.  Very Bronx.  Very New York.  

</p><p>“Get outa there, you.  <em>Hey!</em>  Get ovah here…” 
 
</p><p>Darcy opened her eyes.  She was lying on her back, on the sidewalk.  It was bright out— still daytime— and people were stepping around her to get by.  A messy-looking dog— some kind of white, curly-haired terrier, with pink-stained fur around its mouth— was trying to sniff at her…

</p><p>“Hey, you okay?” said the lady, who was bending over her, trying to keep her dog pulled back.  She was wearing pink pedal-pusher pants and a tropical-print shirt that had its ends tied in a knot at the waistline.  Her makeup was bad, but her face was kind.  “You need some help?”

</p><p>“I’m okay,” said Darcy, as she sat up, and she swallowed, her stomach feeling like she’d just fallen off of a roller coaster.  She was still gripping her phone in her left hand, while the little amphora was held loosely in her right.  The bottle of ale was resting next to her hip on the sidewalk— intact, surprisingly…

</p><p>“Did you… did you happen to see how I—”  She tried to stand up, but her legs were like noodles. “Nope,” she said, and she sat back down immediately. 

</p><p>“Take it easy,” said the lady.  “You sure you’re okay, honey?  You need me to call someone?”

</p><p>“Yeah, no,” said Darcy, shaking her head, but before she could say more, her phone buzzed loudly in her hand— it’d connected to the cellular network, everything updating.  “Oh, fuck,” she said, as she looked at the home screen: the little red numbers on the icons told her that she had forty-three missed calls, and one hundred seventy-nine text messages.

</p><p>“I gotta pee,” she said, feeling a spike of fear.  She grabbed the bottle of ale and pushed herself back up to standing, wobbling a little, as more people pressed by her, grumbling at her to get out of the way. 

</p><p>“Thanks,” she said to the lady, who was looking at the bottle, her demeanor more wary now— probably thought Darcy was some kind of wino, passed out on the fucking sidewalk.  “I’ll— I’ll be okay,” she said again, and the lady nodded and went on her way, pulling her dog along…

</p><p>How had nobody noticed her just blinking back into existence out of nowhere?  Maybe it was some odd function of the spell, or whatever magic made it work.  People were still shoving by her, bumping into her body, irritated by her unmoving position on the sidewalk— like she was a piece of old wood sticking out of a rushing river…

</p><p>She looked up and around— saw the sign for the shop behind her. “Oh, fuck,” she breathed, when she finally realized where she was. She was standing outside the bagel shop— the one where Bucky had kissed her the first time.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Can I use your bathroom?”

</p><p>The guy behind the counter didn’t even give her the dignity of a verbal response— simply directed her attention to a hand-written sign that was propped up next to the tip jar by the register: <em>Restroom for Paying Customers Only</em>— and then he yelled out “Next in line!”

</p><p>“How much for a cup of coffee,” she said, without stepping away.

</p><p>The guy looked at her with a tired expression.  “Dollar twenty.”

</p><p>“Shit,” she muttered.  It’d been a stupid question— she didn’t have a penny on her, unless you counted the strange golden coin she now had safely tucked into her leather corset…

</p><p>“Next in <em>line!</em>” he bellowed, and she finally stepped away, while the woman behind her— a cute, twenty-something hippie woman in a black tank-top and olive-drab army pants— moved up.  She placed her order, glancing at Darcy, who was now staring down at her phone, her hand shaking…

</p><p>“I’ll get you a coffee,” said the hippie woman, and then she turned and added it to the order, making the counter guy roll his eyes as he trudged over to fill up a cheap styrofoam cup…

</p><p>“Wow, thanks,” said Darcy.  

</p><p>“No problem,” said the woman.  “I, uh… I been there.”   When the guy came back with the coffee, the woman said to him, “Could I get the bathroom key, please?”

</p><p>Her request prompted a long-suffering-sigh from the guy, but he leaned over and grabbed the key, and then handed it over, along with her bagels. 

</p><p>“Next in <em>line!</em>”
  
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Darcy exited the bagel shop, bladder emptied, hands washed, now carrying a cup of cheap coffee in her right hand, and the rest of her stuff— ale, amphora, and phone— in a shitty plastic bag that the hippie woman had procured for her.  And people said that New Yorkers were rude… 

</p><p>All of the tables outside the shop were occupied, so she walked the coffee over to the curb, away from the foot-traffic, and sat down, her boots resting in the street. She was still feeling shaky and overwhelmed— the sensory overload of Manhattan: people, lights, cars, traffic, <em>noise</em>— assaulting her from every angle.

</p><p>She set the plastic bag down on the curb next to her butt, keeping the handles looped around her wrist so that nobody could try to steal it.  She reached in and pulled out her phone, finally ready to make contact…

</p><p>Part of her wanted to dive right in— to call Bucky, hear his voice— but she chickened out.  Decided to check her messages first, so she could get a sense of where he was at— whether he’d even been worried about her. 

</p><p>She clicked on the voice messages first— only managed to listen to a handful, before she had to stop. The first four were from Jane, wondering where she was.  They became increasingly worried, and the fourth one sounded frantic— making Darcy feel retroactively guilty, even though none of it had been her fault…

</p><p>The fifth one was from Bucky.  She could tell he’d been walking briskly as he’d left it, his voice just a little harried, breathless.  He was telling her to call or text him, right away.  It wasn’t anything special, but the sound of his voice… <em>God</em>.  She didn’t know if she could take it.  There were thirty-eight more voice-mails to go…

</p><p>She clicked out of the phone app, and pulled up the unread texts instead…

</p><p>She went straight to the entry for Bucky— clicked on his name and then had to scroll up and up and up, looking for the first of the hundreds of messages he’d left since she’d gone missing…

</p><p>She started at the beginning:  <em>Hey if you get this please call or text ASAP.  Jane worried</em>.

</p><p>As with Jane’s phone messages, they escalated quickly into concern, and then open worry, and finally a kind of frantic fear…  she scrolled down, scanning them quickly.  Most of them were reiterations of the same theme:

</p><p><em>Honey please if you get this give me anything, any kinda sign just so I know you’re out there somewhere</em>

</p><p><em>If this is about what happened you can yell at me all you want please just call me.  Call me and let me have it</em>

</p><p><em>Please sweetheart just let me know you’re okay</em>

</p><p>And then, on what must’ve been the second day, going by the context of some of the others, there was this one— short, to the point— and it made her ache:

</p><p><em>I’m scared</em>

</p><p>By the time she got to the end of the long list of bald-faced worry and fear and pleading, she was leaking little tears— wiping them off her cheek with the back of her hand, as she read and re-read the most recent one about ten times over… 

</p><p><em>Fuck I love you so much</em><br/>
<em>Please be okay</em>

</p><p>Her heart was pounding as she opened up the phone app again, her thumb hovering over the entry for his name…

</p><p>And then she flinched, startled, when her ringtone began to blast out Thomas Dolby, her screen taken over by the incoming call notification: Jane.  

</p><p>She clicked to accept it, raising the phone to her ear.  “Hey,” she said, shakily, and then winced when Jane’s voice came at her like a machine-gun assault:

</p><p>“<em>Darcy?!?</em>  Where are you?  Are you okay?  I just got your text; who <em>are</em> those guys?  Are you safe?  Should I call the police?  Where—”

</p><p>“Jane, slow down,” she said.  “I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I’m… I’m back.”

</p><p>“Back from <em>where?</em>” said Jane, her voice breaking from the strain of her shrieking.  And then, “Holy shit, I gotta call Bucky; he’s been frantic… God, Darcy…”

</p><p>“No,” she said quickly.  “I’ll— I’ll call him.  I was about to…”

</p><p>“Where are you?” said Jane again.  “Who are those guys?  Are they with you?  Are you hurt?  Can I send a car, or—”

</p><p>“No, I’m…  I’m in the city now,” she said. “I can get home fine.  I’m… Janey, it’ll be okay.”  She sighed. “I gotta call Bucky,” she said.  “He left me about a million texts…”

</p><p>“God, no doubt,” said Jane.  “He was… I’ve never seen him like that.”

</p><p>“Are you at the Tower?” 

</p><p>“Yeah.  I’m in the lab; I was trying to—”

</p><p>“I’ll call you as soon as I get there, okay? Don’t— don’t tell Bucky; I want to talk to him myself.”

</p><p>“Okay, but promise you’ll call him?  Like, as soon as we hang up.  The guy’s been out of his mind.”

</p><p>“I promise,” she said.  “I’ll— I’ll see you soon.  Love you.”

</p><p>“God, I love you too.”

</p><p>Once she’d hung up, she put the phone down in her lap, and took a few deep breaths, in and out…

</p><p>She took another sip of the shitty coffee— grateful for it, even as bad as it was— and then set the styrofoam cup down in the road, next to her feet, and went back to the phone entry for Bucky.  Took one more deep breath and clicked on the number and held the phone up to her ear… 

</p><p>She began talking as soon as he picked up, before he could say a word.  “It’s me,” she said, trying to keep it together, keep her voice steady.  “I’m— I’m okay.”

</p><p>He was somewhere noisy— the cafeteria, maybe— and she could hear a chair scraping on the floor, and then a loud clattering, like something falling over— and then he was shouting to someone in the background: <em>It’s her! She’s okay!</em>

</p><p>She took another deep breath, waiting for him to speak into the phone again…

</p><p>“Where are you?” he said, and she could tell that he was walking. “Are you hurt?  Tell me where you are.”  And then she could hear his voice breaking: “God, sweetheart…”

</p><p>“I’m…”  She was overcome for a second… almost couldn’t speak.  “I’m at the bagel place,” she said.  “The one where—”

</p><p>“I’m comin’,” he said.  “Five minutes.”  She could hear the ding of an elevator, and a woman’s calm voice saying, “We’re going up,” and then he swore, loudly, and it made her laugh, even as her lips shook, trying not to cry…  

</p><p>“I’m takin’ the stairs,” he said, to whoever that was, on the other end, and then his voice got louder as he spoke into the phone again: “Fuck, sweetheart,” he said.  “I don’t wanna hang up, but I can get to you faster if I do…”

</p><p>“I’m okay,” she said.  “I’m not going anywhere…”

</p><p>“Don’t move,” he said.  “Stay inside, or… or around a lot people; Don’t—”

</p><p>“Bucky, I’m fine…”

</p><p>“Five minutes,” he said again, and then he clicked off… 

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She heard him coming— or rather, the effect of his coming— before she saw him…

</p><p>“Hey, <em>watch</em> it, asshole,” yelled some lady, maybe a block away, and then a man:  “What the <em>fuck</em>,” and she just <em>knew</em>…

</p><p>Sure enough, when she leaned forward, trying to see down to the end of the block, she could see him:  Bucky, coming full-bore down the street like he was on a mission— pushing through the crowds on the sidewalk, slaloming around dog-walkers and bums, dipping into the road when he needed to, as he sprinted to reach the shop.  

</p><p>He hadn’t seen her yet— probably thought she was sitting inside somewhere.  Just before he reached the storefront, she pushed up off the curb and she saw the exact moment when his eyes clocked on her and he skidded to a stop…

</p><p>He was just standing there, staring at her like she was an apparition— like he couldn’t believe his eyes.  Like they’d been separated for years, not days…

</p><p>He was breathing heavy— looking like a mess in his worn black jeans and his rumpled-up navy T-shirt.  He hadn’t even bothered to pull on the cosmetic silicone sleeve that he usually hid his arm under, when he went out as a civilian…

</p><p>His hair was a wreck, and he obviously hadn’t shaved in days…

</p><p>He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

</p><p>“Bucky?” she whispered, and fuck, she was gonna cry…

</p><p>He tore up the last few steps between them, and then he was <em>there</em>— pulling her roughly into his arms, his flesh hand plunging into her hair to hold her head to his chest, and she could feel and hear his voice, breathing out the words like a kind of chant: <em>God… sweetheart… Jesus... God, you’re all right</em>…

</p><p>She was clutching at him, pulling on his shirt— hanging on for dear life: bathing in the feel of his arms around her… the smell of him, so familiar: his man-soap, his sweat… and something else, too: some unnameable essence that was so uniquely <em>him</em>, that made her feel safe, like she was… 

</p><p><em>Fuck</em>: like she was home. 

</p><p>He smelled like home…

</p><p>She was fighting the tears— not wanting to cry, there on the street, and she was shaking, trying to contain it.  He pulled back enough to get another look at her, his hands moving to her face— framing it, smoothing her hair back, gaping at her like he still couldn’t believe it— and when she looked into his pretty blue eyes, she was stunned to see that they were wet…
</p><p>Bucky didn’t cry: not in front of her, at least— and for a second she got really scared… wondered what she’d missed: if he had some terrible news, or…

</p><p>“What’s wrong?” she said, as she reached up to place one hand against his face, and she ached when she felt him lean into it… “What— did  something happen?”

</p><p>His face changed then— something sick washing through his expression, and she knew she’d fucked up…

</p><p>“What’re you… <em>Jesus</em>.”  He let go of her, took a step back.  “God, you were—” He almost seemed angry, and it was making her curl up a little inside. “You were <em>gone</em>,” he said.  “Jane and I, were were fuckin’ frantic; we—”  He turned to the side and pushed a hand into his hair, roughly— left it there for a second, looking a little crazy…

</p><p>And then he looked at her straight on again, dropping the hand— really looked at her: finally seeing all of her— as though he’d had to take that step back, to have anything other than a purely emotional response…

</p><p>“Are you hurt?” he said, as his eyes raked up and down her body.  “What the fuck happened?  Where did you—”  And then his face changed again, like he was confused: “What the fuck are you wearing?”

</p><p>“I’ll tell you everything,” she said, “but I wanna…”  She sagged a little.  “I wanna go home.  I need to eat something… drink a gallon of water— <em>clean</em> water.”  She let out a long, tired sigh… “God, I better go to medical…”

</p><p>“You hurt?” he asked again, now that they were falling back onto the safety of the practical… “You hungry?”

</p><p>“You got any money on you?” she said. 

</p><p>“Yeah,” he said.  “You want a bagel?  I’ll get you a whole bag…”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The counter guy was giving her all kinds of attitude again: giving her the side-eye as he filled up the paper bag with bagels, shaking his head a little, and she was about to ask what the fuck his problem was, when all at once she realized:  she’d been in there earlier, asking to use the bathroom… no money… got a coffee handout from another customer, and now here she was, back with someone else— a guy buying food for her, like…

</p><p>She started laughing, feeling a little crazy, because it was too funny: the guy hadn’t outright called her a <em>whore</em> like every other asswipe making assumptions about her, over the past few days, but he was obviously <em>thinking</em> it…

</p><p>Dumbass jerks were the exactly the same— in any reality…

</p><p>“You okay?” said Bucky, as he took the bag of bagels and handed over his debit card.  “What is it?”

</p><p>“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s… I’ll tell you later.”

</p><p>Bucky got his card back, and Darcy glared at the asshole counter guy, and then they threaded their way back through the busy shop, and finally pushed through the door and out into the open air again.

</p><p>“Gimme,” she said, holding her hand out, as they stopped on the sidewalk. “One of the ones with all the sprinkles and shit.”

</p><p>He dug into the bag and handed one over, and she took a huge bite of it, sighing with pleasure as the familiar flavors hit her taste buds…

</p><p>“You gonna tell me what happened?” he said. “Where you been?”

</p><p>“I want to,” she said, mumbling the words out around a mouthful of food.  “But…”

</p><p>“But what?” he said.

</p><p>She swallowed and said, “You’re never gonna believe me.”

</p><p>“You’re right,” said a stern voice behind her.  “He won’t.”

</p><p>They both spun around, just in time to see Doctor Strange and his wizard friend— Wong— step out of a huge, circular, fiery-orange portal on the sidewalk, as people around spread out, making way— some of them gasping and pointing, while others scrambled to pull out their cellphones and start taking pictures…

</p><p>“What the fuck?” said Darcy, so startled that she dropped the rest of her bagel on the sidewalk.

</p><p>“The amphora,” said Strange, as he stepped toward her.  “Hand it over.”

</p><p>“Hey!” said Bucky, moving to shield her, and she could see the anger rising in him as he faced off against Strange. “You got a lot to answer for,” he said. “I been tryin’ to reach you for three days— <em>three days</em>— tryin’ to find out what the heck happened to my girl, and—”

</p><p>“Got it,” said Wong.  

</p><p>“Hey!” said Darcy, when she realized that somehow, Wong had magicked the little vessel right out of her plastic bag and into his hands.  He tossed it to Strange, who caught it neatly in his hands, and then they both calmly turned their backs and stepped back through the portal.  A second later, it closed up, and they were gone. 

</p><p>“Hey!” Darcy shouted again, this time yelling up into the sky, for all the good it would do.  “God...  <em>Asshole!</em>”  And then, still shouting up at nothing: “You owe me a pair of Converse, motherfucker!”

</p><p>She looked back down and saw that Bucky was watching her, a funny little smile breaking out on his face…

</p><p>“What,” she snapped, still fuming.  And then she looked around at the crowd that’d formed— people still taking pictures, shooting video with their cellphones.  She could hear murmurs: “<em>Strange… Barnes…  Winter Soldier</em>…”

</p><p>“I think we should go,” she said, uneasily.  

</p><p>She’d never felt wary in public with Bucky before, but the events of the past few days had left her feeling cautious, paranoid.  She was getting shades of those townsfolk, back in that town… Shit-stack… whatever.  Didn’t like the way people were looking at Bucky, whispering… looking at his metal hand…  

</p><p>“You okay to walk?” he was saying.  “Should I get a cab, or—”

</p><p>“I can walk,” she said.

</p><p>“You sure?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s get outa here.”  She started to push her way through the crowd, Bucky right behind her, his hand feathering her back…

</p><p>They made it through the crowd— waited, with the other pedestrians for the light to change at the next intersection.  She looked over when a yellow cab honked loudly as it swayed, having slammed on its brakes abruptly; a lady in a suit and heels had darted boldly across the street against the red, trying to sneak through, and the cab had almost slammed into her.

</p><p>“<em>What the fuck, lady!</em>” yelled the cabbie out his open window.

</p><p>“<em>Fuck you!</em>” she bellowed back at him, as she continued on her way.

</p><p>“God, it’s nice to be home,” said Darcy.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She was in medical for over an hour— getting all her vitals checked out, filling out forms… getting about a pint of blood sucked out of her arm, for various tests…

</p><p>Bucky sat with her the whole time, watching her silently, without comment, as she gave the details to the on-call nurse:  blisters, acid burns.  Saddle sores.  Possibly-contaminated water… 

</p><p>At one point Bucky got up to go to the vending machine down the hall, and she asked the nurse, privately, keeping her voice low, “Um… could you check for any… STDs?  While you’re at it?”

</p><p>“Sure thing,” said the guy, and he swiveled his way in his rolling chair over to his tablet, and tapped something into the screen.

</p><p>“How long will it take to get that back?”

</p><p>The guy glanced at his watch.  “Few hours?” he said.  “Can’t guarantee it, of course— if something else comes up…”

</p><p>“Right, of course,” she said.  “And who do I call to…”

</p><p>“I can ask the lab to call you direct, if you want,” said the guy.  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

</p><p>“Really?” she said.  She was expecting to have to jump through all sorts of hoops and delays…

</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, looking at his tablet again.  “Says here you’re on the Priority Call list.  Pretty standard, for all the Avengers and their family…” 

</p><p>“Family,” she said, not understanding.

</p><p>“You’re down as Mr. Barnes’ next of kin,” he said, as he tapped on the screen. “You and Captain Rogers.  Is that… do I need to update that?”

</p><p>“No,” she said, shaking her head.  “No, leave it.”

</p><p>“Kay,” he said, as he swiveled back over. “Just a few more things, and…”

</p><p>There was the sound of running footsteps in the hallway outside, getting closer, and then a voice cried out: “<em>Darcy!</em>”

</p><p>It was Jane, almost falling on her ass, as she skidded into the room, interrupting whatever the nurse had been about to say.  

</p><p>“Hey,” said Darcy, giving her a feeble wave from where she was sitting at the nurse’s station.

</p><p>“Oh my God, you’re really—”  Jane stopped— her expression changing from relief, to confusion. “What are you wearing?”

</p><p>“Travel clothes,” said Darcy, grinning at her friend.

</p><p>“Are you okay?” said Jane.  Not waiting for a direct answer, she immediately looked to the nurse: “Is she all right?”

</p><p>“Seems to be,” said the nurse, just as Bucky came back into the room with a bag of potato chips.  Jane looked up at him and beamed— reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it, which wasn’t lost on Darcy at all; it was weird: Jane had never been particularly fond of Bucky…

</p><p>“We’re gonna run her blood and do some other tests,” said the nurse, “But for now… she seems fine.  Nothing I need to keep her for.”

</p><p>“Where <em>were</em> you?” said Jane.  “What happened?  Why didn't you call, or—”

</p><p>Darcy sighed.  She was already getting tired of answering questions… “Can I tell you later?” she said.  “I’ll tell you the whole story; I promise.  I’m just… I’m really fucking tired, and—”

</p><p>“Yeah, of course,” said Jane.  “But do we need to file a police report or anything?  Who were those guys in the picture?”

</p><p>“Wait a second,” said Bucky, frowning.  “What guys? What’re you talking about?”

</p><p>Darcy sighed again, feeling even more tired.  “Nothing, it’s— I’m gonna tell you everything, okay?  Just—”  She looked up: first at Jane, and then Bucky— both of them looking at her with an almost aggressive level of concern. “Don’t worry about it, all right?  They didn’t hurt me.”

</p><p>“Sorry,” said the nurse, breaking into their conversation.  “I just need one last thing before you go.”  He held out a little plastic sample cup to her, along with a couple of individually-wrapped sanitary wipes.  “Try to fill it up to the line,” he said.

</p><p>“It was something at the Sanctum, wasn’t it,” said Jane.  “You touched something, or—”

</p><p>“Seriously,” said Darcy, as she took the pee-cup from the nurse.  “I’ll tell you the whole story later, okay?  Promise.”  She turned to the nurse: “Where’s the…”

</p><p>“Right over there,” he said, pointing to the med-center’s public bathroom.  “Bring it back to me when you’re done.”

</p><p>“I’ll call you later, okay?” she said to Jane, as she stood up.  She stepped forward and hugged her boss tightly for a few seconds— trying to reassure her. 

</p><p>“I’m so glad you’re okay,” murmured Jane, her face muffled in Darcy’s shoulder.

</p><p>“Me too,” said Darcy, as they separated.  

</p><p>“Well,” said Jane, looking between her and Bucky.  “I’m gonna go try to finally get some work done, now that my brain’s gonna be more willing to cooperate…”

</p><p>“Sounds good,” said Darcy.  “Um… what day is it, anyway?  Day of the week?  I sort of lost track…”

</p><p>“Friday,” said Jane, blinking. 

</p><p>“Oh, thank God,” said Darcy.  “I don’t know if I woulda been prepared to come in tomorrow, or—”

</p><p>“Like I would have expected you to,” said Jane, sounding slightly offended.  “Sheesh.  Take some time.”

</p><p>Darcy watched as Jane squeezed Bucky’s arm as she passed by, on her way to the exit. “Since when did you two become all chummy-chummy,” she said sourly, as soon as Jane was out of earshot.

</p><p>“Since you vanished off the face of the fuckin’ Earth,” he said.  “Christ, Dee… we were both… you don’t know what it was like for us, not knowin’…”

</p><p>“I wasn’t entirely sure you even gave a shit,” she said softly.

</p><p>Bucky just looked at her, and she wasn’t sure what the emotion was on his face, but it wasn’t a good one.  “You serious?” he finally said.

</p><p>“I, uh… I’m just gonna go check on something,” said the nurse, as he stood and went over to the opposite end of the med bay— pretended to be busy with something…

</p><p>“Darcy…” said Bucky, his voice soft, and he stepped forward, dropped the bag of chips on the table, and reached out to grab her free hand.

</p><p>She looked down. Took in a shuddering breath, as she stared at their hands, her own resting limply in his. “We can… we can talk about it later, okay?”  She let go of his hand and headed for the bathroom, turning back once to say, “Wait for me, all right?”

</p><p>He shoved his hands into his pockets— looked down as he shook his head.  “Doll…” He looked up again as she stood there, waiting for his answer, and his eyes looked so sad in that moment that she wanted to go back to him— reassure him, like she’d done to Jane.  But she didn’t.

</p><p>“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, finally.

</p><p>She nodded to him, and then went into the bathroom.  Flicked on the light and shut the door.  Pressed the button on the lever-handle to lock it.

</p><p>She stood there, facing the closed door, for five more seconds— just breathing in and out— and then her face wobbled and fell, and she finally gave in: let herself crumple and sag and cry.

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“You wanna come in?”

</p><p>He’d walked her all the way back to her little apartment— three floors up from medical, and two floors below his place, in the residential level of the Tower.  

</p><p>He was acting weirdly protective, as though she were still vulnerable. A pair of chatty office-workers— a man and a lady in crisp, conservative suits— had gotten on the elevator one floor after them; when the man— a Brett Kavanaugh lookalike— made some stupid joke: asked Darcy where the costume-party was, Bucky had made the guy shrivel with a single, wordless look…

</p><p>She’d planned on calling it a night— day— whatever: to thank him for the escort, and go into her place alone.  She was desperate for a hot shower, and crawling into bed would be next on the list: something he couldn’t— wouldn’t— do; not if sleep was on the menu.

</p><p>But now that they were there, standing outside her room… she couldn’t do it: couldn’t let him go already, even if it meant more of his questions. Questions that were gonna have tough answers. Tough truths.  

</p><p>So she paused, turning around at her door, and asked: and that in itself was a strange feeling— a backtracking in their relationship, to an earlier formality. 

</p><p>“You sure?” he said.  “I know you’re tired…”

</p><p>She turned back to the panel without another word; put in the code to open the door.  It beeped, releasing the electronic latch, and she pushed the door open and stepped in.  

</p><p>It felt odd to be back in her own place.  The air inside felt stale: like it’d sat, unoccupied, for weeks, though it’d only been a few days.

</p><p>She assumed— now that she knew how worried he’d been— that he’d let himself in at some point; had probably looked around, searching for clues. 

</p><p>She stopped in the entryway— set down the plastic bag; pulled off the suede boots, dumping them in the pile of shoes under the bench against the wall.  Bucky was right behind her: silently slipped off his own shoes, after shutting and locking the door.

</p><p>“Were you in here?” she said, as she lifted one foot up to the bench. “While I was gone?”  She parted the suede skirt to unfasten the strap on the thigh-high stocking— pushed it down to her ankle, and then pulled it the rest of the way off.

</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, watching her, as she switched legs. “A couple times. Just walked around, seein’ if… hopin’ there’d be somethin’…”

</p><p>She dropped the other stocking on the floor, and then straightened up and stretched, trying to crack her back.  Picked up the plastic bag again, and shuffled barefoot into the livingroom.

</p><p>“Jane’s got your backpack,” he added.  He followed her as far as the threshold to the livingroom and stopped. “In the lab still, I think.  We, uh… we were goin’ through it, tryin’ to see if there was anything…”

</p><p>“It’s okay,” she said, sighing.  She set the plastic bag on the coffee table, taking a moment to set the bottle of ale upright on its base, and then plopped down tiredly on the couch.  

</p><p>Her entire body felt tight and sore: like the stress and fear— and all that walking— had finally caught up with her.  She sat up again, and unbuckled the belt on the corset.  Released the laces, separating the two sides.  Pulled the whole thing off and dropped it onto the coffee table, next to the ale.  The little golden coin had fallen out in the process, and she leaned over to pick it up off the rug.  Put it on the table with the rest of the stuff, and then leaned back into the couch again, and shut her eyes.

</p><p>Bucky was still standing at the edge of the room— like he didn’t know whether he should come in or not.  

</p><p>His discomfort was understandable; she was feeling it too.  The last time they’d been in that room together…

</p><p>It was like revisiting a crime scene.

</p><p>“You’re making me nervous,” she said, opening her eyes.

</p><p>“M’sorry,” he said, shifting his feet.  “I don’t know what—”

</p><p>“You can sit,” she said.  “I’m not gonna…”  

</p><p>She trailed off.   Realized she had no idea what she was gonna do.  “I don’t even know what I was gonna say,” she admitted.  And then, right on cue, the nervous joke:  “But you’re not getting another blow job any time soon, I’ll tell you that much.”

</p><p>“Ah, Christ,” he said.  He rubbed at his forehead, looking as weary as she felt— turned around once, and then back to face her, though his eyes were on the floor.  His hand fell to his side and he let out a long sigh.  “God, Dee… I’m sorry…”

</p><p>She wasn’t exactly sure which part of it he was apologizing for— but if it was for that train-wreck of a blow job and its aftermath, that was as good of a place to start as any…

</p><p>“It’s okay,” she said quietly, automatically, and then backpedaled, internally: it <em>wasn’t</em> okay.  

</p><p>“I wish you would’ve just stopped me,” she said. “You made me feel like such an idiot, like I— like I can’t get enough, or you felt sorry for me, or…”  She took a breath and looked at him, trying to say something honest.  Tried to stick to the facts. “I just wanted to make you feel good, you know? ”

</p><p>He still wouldn’t look at her, but he finally stepped into the room— went around the coffee table and sat down on the other side of the couch, leaving plenty of space between them.  He leaned forward, in profile to her, resting his forearms on his thighs, his head bowed.  

</p><p>“You do,” he said, quietly.  “You do make me feel good.  You’re good at it.”

</p><p>She barked out a sharp, short laugh. “Gee, thanks,” she said.  “Good to know I’m good for <em>something</em>…”

</p><p>“Fuck,” he said, shaking his head.  He sounded exasperated.  “That’s not what— I meant all of it.  Makin’ me feel good.  Takin’ care of me.”

</p><p>She was quiet.  Tense.  Breathing shallowly…

</p><p>“Better than Nat?” she said, without looking at him.

</p><p>“Ain’t nothin’ between me and Nat,” he said, his voice firm, and when she glanced over, he was looking right at her, his face serious.  

</p><p>“Never was,” he added.  “Least, not like what you’re thinkin’.  That day by the gym— the day you went missin’.  I was talkin’ to her, because….”  He stopped, and looked away again— was staring off at the wall…

</p><p>It was too quiet.  She could feel her heart beating, as she processed what he was telling her. 

</p><p>“I was askin’ her advice,” he said.  “On… how not to fuck it up with you.”

</p><p>“Right,” said Darcy. “Because she’s an expert on relationships.” 

</p><p>“No,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm. He was looking straight at her again. “She’s an expert at pushin’ away the people she cares about,” he said. “Same as me.”

</p><p>She was holding herself very still, afraid to meet his eyes.  Afraid to breathe too loudly….

</p><p>She stood up abruptly— picked up the bottle of ale.  Could feel Bucky’s eyes following her, as she took it to the kitchen.  

</p><p>“You want a drink?” she said, her back to him, as she set it down on the counter.  “This ale— I think you’d like it.”

</p><p>He didn’t answer, but she got down two glasses anyway, and then rummaged around in a drawer for the shitty corkscrew she rarely used.  

</p><p>She felt flustered— on display, somehow— as she fitted the end of it over the neck of the bottle, and twisted the handle.  Pushed down on the levers to pull the cork out.  In her impatience to complete the operation, she pulled the tool slightly to the side instead of straight up, and the cork broke off, leaving a chunk of itself wedged inside the neck of the bottle.

</p><p>“God <em>dammit</em>,” she said, and Bucky was already standing, coming to join her in the kitchen.  She stepped out the way, not wanting him to see how her fingers were shaking…

</p><p>She was staring at the countertop, but could see him out of her peripheral vision— the careful movements of his hands, as he removed the big piece of cork from the corkscrew, and then carefully threaded the pointy end back into the remaining bit in the neck.  He took his time, doing it right— his metal hand holding the bottle steady as he gently manipulated the tool, nudging it back and forth, bit by bit, until he finally got it out.

</p><p>“Thanks,” she said, quietly, and reached over for the bottle.  She started to pour some into a glass, but it wound up being about two-thirds foam…

</p><p>“You gotta tilt it,” he said, taking up the other pint glass.  “Like this.”  He showed her, tipping the glass to a forty-five-degree angle, and filled the glass to the top, gradually straightening it at the end.  He set it down on the counter and she watched it foam up with a perfect, frothy, one-inch head.

</p><p>“Okay, genius,” she said, feeling annoyed.  Her own beer had calmed down a little, the foam settling lower in the glass, and she picked it up, tilting the glass to top it off. The ale itself was a pretty golden amber; she hadn’t been able to appreciate its color before, in the opaque, ceramic tankards of Geralt’s world.

</p><p>She picked up her glass and sniffed at it— felt her pulse tick up a notch: unprepared for the way it took her straight back to that bath: the big wooden tub,   the warm, oily water… the candlelight… and <em>him</em>…

</p><p>“I got this from a bard,” she said, her voice sounding stupid, like she was reading a line… “who got it from a bald lady who runs a whorehouse.  Believe it or not.”  Her skin was hot, and though he couldn’t know a thing, she felt like he could see right through her…

</p><p>“A whorehouse,” he said.  He hadn’t tried the beer— hadn’t even touched the glass since he’d poured it. 

</p><p>“That’s not gonna be the weirdest part of the story, by far,” she said, and then she picked up her glass again— tipped it back, and took a good, long drink. “Like Doctor Dickhead said,” she joked, as she set the glass back down.  “You’re not gonna believe me.  There’s no way…”

</p><p>“I will,” he said softly.  “I will if you say it’s true, whatever it is.”  He finally picked up his glass and sniffed at the beer, and then took a small taste.  “Hm,” he said.  “You’re right.  S’good.”

</p><p>He took a longer drink, and set down the glass.  Traced a circle on the counter with his fingertips, his eyes watching the motion…

</p><p>“You believe me about Nat?”

</p><p>It was weird, the role-reversal: he the one asking questions, trying to draw the answers out of <em>her</em>.  It’d always been the other way around: with her feeling like she was interrogating him, and then still having to guess— relying on clues, or just a handful of words, to try to piece together what he was really thinking.

</p><p>And now here she was, being the quiet one.  The stubborn one.  Walking away from a difficult discussion.  Avoiding the feelings, sidestepping direct questions…

</p><p>He’d said so much— been more open in the past two hours, than he’d been in weeks… and that didn’t even include the voicemails, the texts…

</p><p>If she fucked this up now— didn’t rise to the open discussion— she could see him closing right back up.  All those gorgeous things he’d said to her would be like skywriting across the canvas of a dream: dissolving, like something only briefly imagined…

</p><p>She topped off her beer again— not bothering to be careful this time— and then picked it up and walked it back to the livingroom. Put it down on the table and sat.

</p><p>He was still in the kitchen— he’d drunk about half his beer, and, like her, was topping it off.  Brought it back to the livingroom and set it down, and took up his place on the couch again. 

</p><p>“You gonna answer me?” he said, “Or…”

</p><p>When she didn’t immediately reply, he went on: “I swear, there’s been no-one else.  Ain’t been, not since—”  He was resting his forearms on his legs again, head bowed, and he raked his fingers through his hair a couple of times.  “I ain’t wanted anyone but you,” he said.  “Since before we even started…”

</p><p>She was looking down at her lap now, picking at her cuticles… trying to stop the tears that were welling up, because of course he was telling her this <em>now</em>…


</p><p>“What,” he said, when she still didn’t answer.  “You still don’t believe me?  Ask Sam, if—”  He made a frustrated sound.  “I ain’t about to lose you over a— a stupid misunderstanding.  You gotta believe me, I—”

</p><p>“I do,” she said, quietly. “I believe you; it’s just—”  And then she looked up at him— made a quizzical face as she swiped at her eyes.  “Wait, why Sam?”  And then she laughed a little, incredulously.  “Nat and Sam?”

</p><p>“It’s new,” said Bucky, shaking his head, like he could shake away the tangent, the distraction.  “Don’t know if it’s gonna turn into anything, but… What were you gonna say?”

</p><p>She was staring at her fingers again, fidgeting in her lap.  A part of her was backing up inside, bargaining… trying to find a way… 

</p><p><em>Don’t tell him</em>, she thought. <em>He never needs to know.  It’s better that he doesn’t.  Who’s it gonna hurt, if</em>…

</p><p>But no.  If they were gonna do this: if they were gonna start over— if she expected <em>him</em> to do better… share his feelings, let her in… 

</p><p>She needed him to know that he could trust her.  With anything.  With <em>everything</em>, no matter how hard.

</p><p>“While I was away,” she started, and she trailed off.  She was terrified, she realized: had no idea how he’d react.  And what the fuck: ‘<em>while I was away?</em>’ She’d made it sound like she’d been gone a long time.  Not that her little fun-in-the-tub, and everything after, had been fricking <em>yesterday</em>.  Or that all it’d taken for her to give up on him was a handful of days, some bruised feelings, and some <em>stupid</em> off-base assumptions…

</p><p>She leaned forward and picked up her beer, took another long drink— aware of how closely he was watching her now.

</p><p>“I was so <em>mad</em> at you,” she said, as she put the glass back down.  “Or… sad, more like.  I only— I thought we were done, and…”

</p><p>She could feel it— feel something retreat in him, the second he figured it out.  

</p><p>“Aw, <em>shit</em>,” he said, as he looked away.  And then he was standing up— took a few steps away, his back to her.  “<em>Fuck</em>.”

</p><p>“I didn’t want to lie about it,” she said, her voice weak, wavering.  “If we’re not done… if we’re gonna— I didn’t want to drop it on you later, like a bomb out of nowhere, or have Jane—”

</p><p>“Jane,” he said, and then he turned around, and she could see on his face that he was trying to hold it together.  Trying to stay calm…  “What’s Jane got to—”  

</p><p>And then his face changed again, remembering.  “The picture,” he said.  “The <em>guys</em>.”  And then he was moving back toward the table, and he pulled her phone out of the plastic bag, picking it up and turning it on… putting in the password, and stepping away, his back to her again, as he worked the phone…

</p><p>“Bucky, don’t,” she said, standing up— panicking a little, as she could see him tapping away… probably bringing up her text messages, or maybe her photo album…

</p><p>“It’s not— I’m never gonna see him again,” she said.  “He’s like… from a thousand years ago, or some other universe, or— I don’t even understand it.  It was some kind of space-time-vortex voodoo, or— Bucky, <em>stop</em>.”

</p><p>She could see his shoulders rising and falling as he breathed deeply… staring at the screen of her phone.  He’d obviously found it: found the picture.

</p><p>She moved up behind him, afraid to brush against him as she peered around his body to see…

</p><p>He was in her text history with Jane.  And yup, there they were:  Geralt and Jaskier, staring at her from the distance, in their weird medieval outfits, in the middle of the woods…

</p><p>He didn’t even ask her which one of them it’d been.  He could probably guess.  Knew her type.  Knew she’d go for the guy with the big-ass sword, the big broad shoulders… the broody stare.  The goddamn butt-chin.  He could be Bucky’s half-brother, in some alternate reality…

</p><p>“What’s his name,” he said, his words careful, even.

</p><p>“It doesn’t matter,” she said, trying to take the phone back.

</p><p>“It does,” he said, pulling his hand away, keeping the phone from her.  “You said you were gonna tell me everything.  So you’re gonna have to tell me his name.  What is it.”

</p><p>“Geralt,” she said, quietly.

</p><p>“Geralt,” he repeated.  “What the fuck kind of name is that.”

</p><p>“I— I don’t know,” she said.  “I don’t even know what the name of the— the place was.  Bucky, please.  Gimme the phone.”

</p><p>He finally handed it over, without looking at her.  She took it and turned it off, set it down on the table.  

</p><p>“Sit down,” she said.  “Please, just… I want to explain.”

</p><p>“What’s there to explain?” he said, laughing a little, but there was no humor in it. “I’m the one said we were on a fuckin’ <em>break</em>.”

</p><p>The anger in his voice was making her shivery, and she took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “It wasn’t just— I wasn’t looking to…”  

</p><p>She didn’t know how to put it into words: that she hadn’t set out for anything like that to happen.  “He saved my life,” she said finally.  “A couple times.  At least.  I’d be dead: a hundred-percent dead, or…”  She stopped, thinking of those brigands, on that first day of travel… of what they’d obviously had in store for her…

</p><p>“If not for— it was a pretty scary place,” she said, stopping to wipe another tear off her cheek. “And I didn’t know if I’d be able to come home.”  And then, because she had to say it:  “Or if you’d even be waiting for me, if I did.”

</p><p>“How can you say that?” he growled, as he whirled back around. “How can you <em>fuckin’</em> say that to me?  You had to know that—”

</p><p>“But I didn’t,” she said, and it sounded like a plea.  And then she raised her own voice, feeling her own anger surge:  “God, Bucky, I— you don’t tell me what’s going on, and— all I’ve got to go on is what I can see, or guess, or— the little bit you tell me, which is almost <em>nothing</em>, and…”  

</p><p>She stood up, needing to claim more vertical space. “Down in medical?  Just now?  The nurse fuckin’ told me I’m down as your next-of-kin.  I mean— what the <em>fuck?</em>”

</p><p>His eyes changed a little: still angry, but confused now— or maybe hurt.  “If you don’t wanna be, you don’t—”

</p><p>“Oh my God, it’s not <em>about</em> that!” she said, throwing up her arms.  “It’s about… how the fuck am I the <em>last</em> one to know that—”

</p><p>“You read my texts?” he said, interrupting her.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said quietly.  “I read all of them.”

</p><p>“So you know that—”

</p><p>“You thought I was <em>dead</em>,” she said.  “You said all that stuff, and— <em>God</em>: I’ve wanted— it’s more than you’ve <em>ever</em> said to me, but… <em>fuck</em>— for all I know, it was only because—”

</p><p>“I said it because it’s true,” he snapped.

</p><p>“Yeah, well…”

</p><p>They were both silent for a while, avoiding each other’s eyes, and everything inside of her was burning: all the tension and fear, anger and guilt…

</p><p>It felt like they were poised at the edge of a cliff, and the slightest breeze could send them tumbling over…  

</p><p>“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said quietly, after a while.  “About the— the next-of-kin thing. They update those things, every now an’ then… ask me if there’s any changes.  So the last time, I said, yeah: there been some changes… didn’t think I needed to run down an’ let you know…”

</p><p>“You didn’t think—”

</p><p>“Why’re you mad about this,” he said, raising his voice again.

</p><p>“Because it’s fucking <em>information!</em>” she said, almost screaming out the last part, and it was the harshest she’d ever been with him— the most she’d ever raised her voice, shown her frustration to him openly— and it felt equal parts awful, and cathartic… 

</p><p>“God, Bucky— if I’d known: if I’d had <em>any</em> fucking clue how you felt, then maybe I would’ve… maybe I wouldn’t have jumped to so many fucking conclusions, the first time I see you giving the time of day to some other random <em>woman!</em>  Don’t you <em>get</em> it?”

</p><p>He was just staring at her now— like he didn’t know who she was: this unhinged, screaming person— and then his face fell, like he was utterly beaten down… exhausted.  He turned away again, his head bowing as he put his hands on his hips…

</p><p>She stared at his back: at his big strong frame, facing away from her— part of her hating him in that moment, as she worked to calm her own breathing. Hated how they were so bad at this.

</p><p>Maybe she’d been dumb to think it could happen: that they could communicate.  That it’d be better, if they tried…

</p><p>And then her thoughts went to Geralt: to his quiet, moody behavior, and how quickly— how effortlessly— she’d slipped into accommodating it. How she'd even— if she were honest— found his reticence oddly attractive, as frustrating as it was.  

</p><p>Well, no doubt.  He’d reminded her of Bucky.  

</p><p>He still had his back to her, and she saw him move one hand up to his brow, like he was shielding his eyes from the light— and then his shoulders began to shake, and she realized he was crying… 

</p><p>She sagged, all the anger dissolving…

</p><p>She moved toward him slowly. Lay one hand on his back. “Hey,” she said softly. When he didn’t flinch away, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek against his back, and then she broke down herself and cried with him…

</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I’m sorry…”  And then, “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

</p><p>“I fucked it up,” he said, his voice ragged. “I fucked it all up…”

</p><p>“We can fix it,” she said, her cheek still pressed against him. “We can start over.  If that’s something…  if you still want—”

</p><p>He turned around in her arms, and it was hard to see him like that: haggard, his cheeks wet— his emotions bare on his face.

</p><p>“Is that what you want?” he said.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, her throat tight.  She swallowed, her voice breaking: “More than anything.”  

</p><p><em>Tell him you love him</em>, her mind was saying.  <em>Tell him</em>.

</p><p>He moved his hand up to feel her face, like he was gonna kiss her, but he just looked at her with sad eyes…

</p><p><em>Tell him</em>…

</p><p>And then his hand fell away, and he let out a breath, his eyes looking away… at nothing… 

</p><p>“Fuck, I’m tired,” he said— and just like that, the moment was over, and she felt herself pulling away too; pulling back from all of it: the intimacy, the words she’d been about to say…

</p><p>“I think I should try to sleep,” she said. “Take a shower, and—”

</p><p>“Okay,” he said, wiping absently at his face. “I’ll let you… fuck, I don’t wanna leave you alone.  M’afraid you’re gonna vanish again, or—”

</p><p>“You can stay,” she said. “I mean, you’re welcome to—”

</p><p>“Better not,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I ain’t slept much, past few days.”

</p><p>“Why don’t you go sleep, then,” she said.  “We’ll— we’ll pick this up later. I’m not going anywhere.  I promise.”

</p><p>He dropped his hand, but he didn’t move. He looked like he was shell-shocked— just standing there, glassy-eyed: like the stress of all that communication had finally broken him down— left him dazed— and she was suddenly flooded with compassion for him. Recognition of how hard he was trying— how fucking <em>much</em> this all was…

</p><p>“C’mere,” she said, and she wrapped her arms around him— chest-to-chest this time, pressing her face into his shirt— and she sighed when his arms wrapped around her, his flesh hand moving up to cup the back of her head. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

</p><p>“Text me as soon as you wake up, okay?” he murmured, without loosening his arms.  “Fuck, text me as soon as you get out of the shower.  Let me know you’re all right.”

</p><p>“I will,” she said. 

</p><p>“Promise me.”

</p><p>She tilted her head up to look at him, and he moved his hand to her face again—smoothed her hair back.  She could feel it again: that he wanted to kiss her, and she wondered if he was holding back for her, or for himself.

</p><p>She wanted to decide for both of them. Wanted to take charge: break the new path.  Kiss until their lips got tired. Pull all their clothes off, and tumble into bed. Tangle up with him, skin-to-skin, and fall asleep in his arms.

</p><p>But she knew it couldn’t be that way.  Not yet; maybe not ever.

</p><p>“I promise,” she said.

</p><p>He tipped his head down— planted one soft kiss on her forehead— and then he sighed as he rested the side of his mouth there, just for a second, before he stepped back, releasing her.  “Get some rest,” he said.

</p><p>She watched him, stoic, as he went back to the entryway. Picked up his shoes, and let himself out. 

</p><p>There was a quiet little <em>click</em> as he shut the door behind him, and then all was silent around her, like the air itself was her witness.

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>The worst was over, she hoped.  He hadn’t exploded in rage, or stormed away in anger.  Hadn’t used her disclosure as an excuse to end it.  Maybe he still would: maybe it’d percolate there, in his head, while they were apart, and…

</p><p>No.  She wasn’t going to run all the possibilities.

</p><p>She tossed back the rest of the beer in her glass.  Finished Bucky’s, too, and then left the dirty glasses there on the table; trudged over to the bathroom.  Flicked on the light and started up the shower. 

</p><p>She used the toilet and then stripped off the rest of her travel clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor.  She supposed she should take better care of them— they were artifacts from another world— but she was too worn out to care.

</p><p>She should have been basking in these simple luxuries: a flush toilet, limitless hot water.  Soap and shampoo.  Toothpaste.  Electricity.  But all she could think about was Bucky… how checked-out he’d looked, before he’d left.  

</p><p>She was sure it’d been exhausting for him: the talking, the arguing.  She didn’t feel sorry for him, but she hoped he didn’t see it as a negative… a cautionary lesson:  <em>See what happens when you talk?  You feel like shit</em>.

</p><p>She wanted to make it work.  Wanted to try.  But maybe it was too much— or at least, too much to handle on their own.  Maybe it was time to ask for help: to find someone on the outside, who could show them how to navigate this…

</p><p>She knew he had his own therapist— maybe even a team of them— but that was all private: separate from their relationship.  She never intruded on that; never asked him what went on at those sessions.  <em>Never</em> pushed him to open up about his trauma; it wasn’t her place.  
</p><p>She knew about some of it; everyone did: the basic facts of his captivity— the things he’d done, the things he’d suffered— were widely known.  There’d been books published about it. 

</p><p>But the rest of it, the aftermath: his long path back to being a member of the team, and his continuing psychological struggles— those details were known to few.  Those who knew him best, or who worked closely with him, like Steve or Sam or Nat— they knew more than most; had to.  But in his personal life… 

</p><p>Apparently, he’d hoped to keep all of that— his issues, his recovery— neatly hidden away… like the clutter you shoved out of sight before the guests arrived.  And she’d gone along with it, up until now… pretending it didn’t matter… like some kind of fool’s paradise— though very little about it had been paradisal…

</p><p>Doing some kind of couples’ therapy— baring their relationship to some stranger— she knew <em>she’d</em> be willing to do it, but would he?  Were they even there yet? Did he see any of this… going anywhere?

</p><p>She texted him after she got out of the shower, as promised. He responded quickly, thanking her for checking in. 

</p><p><em>Try to sleep sweetheart.  Lemme know if you need anything</em>.

</p><p><em>You should rest too</em>, she typed back.

</p><p><em>Gonna try</em>, he said.

</p><p>Back in her room, she pulled on a pair of clean underpants and a soft, oversized T-shirt to sleep in, and then plugged in her phone.  Lay a fresh towel on her pillow, to catch the drips from her hair, and then burrowed into the covers, her phone in her hand. 

</p><p>She knew she should just shut it down— close her eyes, and sleep— but now that she was finally alone, the urge for a personal debrief was overwhelming.

</p><p>She opened up her photo album— smiled, a little sadly, at the first one that popped up, which was the last one she’d taken: the group shot, at the mage’s tower… Geralt and Yennefer sulking, while Jaskier beamed at the camera with his sunny, boyish cheer…

</p><p>Jaskier…  God, she was gonna miss him.  Already did.

</p><p>She swiped back to the video she’d shot— played the song: the one about the coin… 

</p><p>Fuck, it was gonna make her cry…

</p><p>It wasn’t often that she just clicked with someone like that: had an immediate rapport, like a kindred spirit… falling instantly into an effortless back-and-forth of bullshit and banter and playful smart-assery…

</p><p>She pictured Jaskier in Manhattan— riding the subway in his medieval garb… competing with the other buskers down in Washington Square Park— God, he’d probably love it… 

</p><p>There was likely no way he could ever visit.  And if there were, it was probably dependent on a couple of sourpuss magic-users from different realities, both of whom seemed to want to have nothing to do with Darcy…

</p><p>She swiped back further: to the selfies she’d taken with Jas, and then the sloppily-framed picture of Geralt’s ass.  She let out a soft little snicker, when she remembered Jaskier’s ebullient approval: ‘<em>Oh, that’s brilliant</em>…’ 

</p><p>She looked at that one for a long time: Geralt’s A-plus, leather-clad booty… 

</p><p>Thinking…

</p><p>She wanted to be selfish.  To keep it.  It made her happy, on a number of different levels, but...

</p><p>Before she could change her mind, she pressed on the little trash-can icon on the lower-right corner of the screen.  Quickly tapped on the confirmation tab, as soon as it popped up, its words in red: <em>Delete Photo</em>.

</p><p>She saved all the rest, including the one that Bucky had already seen. Moved them into a new folder, and then sent it to both of her private email addresses, so she could back it up on her laptop later.

</p><p>She clicked the phone off— reached over to set it on her bedside table, still plugged in— and then lay back.  Shut her eyes.  Tried to relax. To give herself over to the physical and emotional fatigue…

</p><p>She lay there for all of ten seconds, and then she rolled onto her side again, grabbing for the phone.  Clicked it back on.  She’d never finished listening to the rest of the voicemails…

</p><p>Most of them were from Jane— the woman preferred voicemail to texting; would leave long, ranting messages on speakerphone while her hands were busy with something else, talking until she was cut off by the message-length-limit.  Darcy listened to all of them, though they were mostly all the same:  <em>where are you.  Please call.  Let me know you’re okay</em>. 

</p><p>Only a handful were from Bucky— in contrast to Jane, the guy hated voicemail: in the past, he’d typically just hang up if she didn’t answer— and it broke her a little more, to hear the obvious worry in his voice…

</p><p>She finished going through them all, one by one— and then, because she was a masochist, she read through all of Bucky’s texts again…

</p><p><em>Fuck I love you so much</em><br/>
<em>Please be okay</em>

</p><p>She was leaking little tears, the screen getting blurry, when her phone rang— startling her.  She didn’t recognize the number, but she sat up a little— answered it, her voice croaking out a weird, “Huh— hello?”

</p><p>“Miss Lewis?”

</p><p>“Yes…”

</p><p>“Hey, it’s Mark, over at the med-lab,” said the voice, as though that would mean something to her— like they were buddies.  Maybe that was part of the whole VIP-deal: personalized support.  “Your bloodwork’s all clear,” he said. “Nothing to report.  Urinalysis looks fine too.  No issues.”

</p><p>“Oh,” she said. “Okay, great.  Thanks.”

</p><p>“If you’re concerned about HIV, you should ask for another test in a few weeks.”

</p><p>“Okay,” she said.  “Sounds good.”

</p><p>“Have a nice day.”

</p><p>“Yup, you too.”

</p><p>She clicked off and dropped the phone on the mattress.  Wiped off her face.  <em>Should</em> she be concerned about HIV?  Who the fuck knew… she doubted there was a fact-sheet on the CDC website about alternate dimensions…

</p><p>She supposed she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.  Bucky at least wouldn’t have to worry, if they ever wound up bumping uglies again: he was immune to pretty much everything.  

</p><p>She looked at her phone again; checked the time: it wasn’t even dinnertime yet, but it felt like the middle of the night.  She had inter-dimensional jet-lag…

</p><p>She rolled over again— shut her eyes— once again tried to sleep.  She knew she needed to…

</p><p>But sleep just wouldn’t come.  She couldn’t settle.  She tortured herself, tossing and turning, for another forty minutes— and then rolled over and grabbed her phone again. Opened messages, and brought up the window for a new text— typed the letters rapidly, and pressed the arrow to send.

</p><p><em>You up?</em>

</p><p>He wrote back almost immediately: <em>You okay?</em>

</p><p><em>Can’t sleep</em>

</p><p>Again, his reply was quick: <em>Me neither</em>  

</p><p>There was a pause, and then another one came through:  <em>Can’t stop thinkin about you</em>

</p><p>Her thumbs hovered over the virtual keyboard for a minute as she breathed, deciding.  Maybe it’d be good to just talk for a while, until she passed out… they could text; they could—

</p><p>She typed it out quickly and sent it:

</p><p><em>Come back</em>

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He didn’t say a word to her when she ripped the door open— just stared at her as she stood there in the doorway in her underpants and T-shirt, looking as wrecked as he did.  

</p><p>He was barefoot, in worn grey sweatpants— the waistband uneven on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a hurry.  His undershirt was crooked.  His hair was messed up, and he still hadn’t shaved… 

</p><p>She stepped aside without speaking— held the door open as he brushed past her, sideways— and then she shut and locked the door.  She was just turning to speak, when she felt his hands on her— pulling her by the hips— tugging her into his body, in a backwards embrace… 

</p><p>She half-turned in his arms, and then he was steering her into the wall, crowding her back into it with his big, warm body, his face unreadable in the dimly shadowed light of the entryway. 

</p><p>She thought he was going to pin her there— press into her, trap her…  kiss her roughly, like he couldn’t help it.  It was a move he’d pulled before: one she liked…

</p><p>But this was something else— the energy slightly different.  He was caging her there with his body, one hand still on her hip as he crowded her, but he wasn’t kissing her… not yet… 

</p><p>She could hear him breathing— feel it, hot— his mouth up by her forehead, his jaw brushing against her face as he encroached on her space…

</p><p>Though he’d said he hadn’t slept, he was thick with the sweaty smell of it— had likely lain in bed, tossing and turning, just like her…

</p><p>“Bucky…” she started, but he cut her off—

</p><p>“What’re we doin’,” he said, his voice a little scratchy, and he feathered her temple with his lips…

</p><p>She could barely hear her own answer: “I don’t know…” 

</p><p>She leaned into the scrape of his stubble as he dragged his mouth against her, tracing the line of her cheekbone— still not kissing: just feeling… 

</p><p>Her fingers curled into his shirt— tugged on him gently, wanting him closer…

</p><p>He let her pull him in— his metal arm bending to brace himself, forearm flush against the wall, like a frame above her head. His other hand slid up slowly, tracing the dip of her waist…  bypassed her breast and went up to her face, his fingers slipping into her hair, as his thumb pressed into her cheek…

</p><p>He dipped his head down, his nose brushing against her as he moved his lips lower, glancing against her mouth, the air between them thick— everything slow and heavy…

</p><p>She tipped up her chin to find him— a subtle kind of <em>yes</em>— and their lips lined up… touching, slotting into place without pressing…

</p><p>He was breathing into her mouth, opening her up, their tongues barely touching as they held there, waiting…

</p><p>She made a desperate little sound, her fingers fisting his shirt, and he answered— finally pressing in deep to taste her…

</p><p>His hand curled to cup her head, holding her steady as he worked her with his mouth, pushing with his tongue and then pulling on her lips, making her moan into their mingled air, and then he stopped— pulled back, panting, pressing his forehead into hers, his lips still just a inch away, as shaky as his breath…

</p><p>“What’re we doin’,” he said, an echo of his earlier question.

</p><p>“I don’t—” she said, stuttering it out— “don’t know if we should be doing this…”

</p><p>“Me neither,” he said, but his voice was full of heat…

</p><p>His lips held steady, hovering there by her mouth, as his hand slid down to her collarbones, fingers brushing the exposed skin there, at the base of her neck… lower, feeling the curve of her breast through her shirt… squeezed it once, slowly…

</p><p>“You wanna stop?” he said, as his thumb skimmed over her nipple, then circled it slowly as it hardened under the fabric…

</p><p>“No,” she said, without even thinking— being honest, even if she couldn’t be smart— already bending into his touch… needy for more... and she tugged on his hips as she craned up for his lips…

</p><p>She could feel him through his sweats— his erection bumping into her as he kissed her again, his hand still on her breast, and she wanted to tug down his pants… wanted to pull him out and stroke him…

</p><p>She could feel the flush of heat, the growing ache between her legs…

</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, she wanted him…

</p><p>He was pushing up on her shirt, trying to get inside, and she broke the kiss, pulled it up for him, getting it over her head, and then tugged at his, as if to say <em>you too</em>…

</p><p>He peeled it off quickly, and then crowded back in with all of that hot, muscled skin, kissing her again as their chests bumped together, and she tried to reach between them— tried to grab for him, wanting to feel him— but he pulled out of  the kiss, pulled his hips back… ran his lips down her neck, mouthed clumsily at her breast… dropped down on one knee and then the other, his hands moving to her hips, pushing her back into the wall: both flesh and metal holding her steady, as he kissed her belly…

</p><p>Her fingers moved to the messy-thick, gorgeous waves of his hair— stroking his scalp— sighing, already trembling… knowing what he was gonna do…

</p><p>His hands curled on her hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of her underpants— tugged them down, past her thighs to her knees, until they fell to the floor on their own…  

</p><p>His hands moved back up: smoothed up her soft, shapely thighs, to the widest part of her curves, sliding around to feel the fullness of her ass— and then he pulled her toward him, into his face, his fingers digging into her hips as he ran his mouth over the little patch of hair between her legs— dark-brown, dusky and damp...

</p><p>His nose was pressing into her mound, breathing in her musky smell… and then he was nudging her, licking up into her, opening her up… parting her with his tongue, so he could get inside…

</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>…” she whispered, fingers curling in his hair, tugging on his scalp as he sighed from her taste…

</p><p>He licked her slowly— held her steady, as he sucked on her lips… took his time… enjoying himself, as he made her all sloppy and wet...

</p><p>“He do this?” he said, between soft swipes of his tongue, his breath husky and hot against her. “He touch you like this?”

</p><p>“No,” she said, the word just a whisper, rocking against him as he staked his claim… made love to her with his mouth…

</p><p>“He fuck you?” he said, his voice a little rougher. “He make you feel good?”

</p><p>“Y— yes…”  And then she breathed out a stuttered “<em>ha—aahh</em>…,” as he pressed in deeper, dragging his tongue through her hot, salty slick, and he was pushing, insistent… trying to get closer, trying to get in…

</p><p>His hand dropped down— the flesh one, slipping under the waistband of his sweats— while the metal one held her steady, keeping her pinned against the wall…

</p><p>His hand began to move, as he sighed again— stroking himself to the taste of her— and it made her flush hotter, going weak at the knees, melting wetter onto his tongue, and she moaned: “<em>God</em>…”

</p><p>He was gonna make her come, but she didn’t want to stop… didn’t want it to end so fast, didn’t want him coming in his pants…

</p><p>She dropped her hands to his shoulders, pushing on him— telling him to back off— and he pulled his mouth away from her… looked up her, wrecked, almost swaying— eyes hooded, lips shiny with her slick…

</p><p>“Jesus, Bucky…”

</p><p>He pulled his hand out of his pants as she slid down the wall, spreading her thighs around him as he leaned back on his heels… his arms moving to hold her as she got into his lap.

</p><p>He helped her, pushing down on his sweats, and neither of them said a word as she lifted up, feeling for the slippery hot tip of him while he held himself steady… and then his eyes fell shut, breathing through gritted teeth, as she worked herself down around him…

</p><p>He kept his eyes shut as she pulled and released— squeezed him inside, tugging him hard, exhaling with every upstroke— and then she gasped, her hands clenching his shoulders, as he pulsed up into her, hard— breaking her rhythm…

</p><p>“The fuck’re you even doin’ with me,” he growled, as he bucked up again, almost angry, his fingers curling into her hips, possessive…  “Huh?  The fuck’re you thinkin’…”

</p><p>He’d never said it straight like that, not to her face: showed her the self-doubt, the self-hatred… like he wasn’t good enough… too fucked up… and she answered the only way she could: with the truth…

</p><p>“I love you,” she said, as she squeezed him again, dragging him up with her muscles, whimpering when his fingers dug in harder…

</p><p>She said it again: “<em>I love you</em>…”

</p><p>And then he was pushing on her— tipping them over, rough onto the floor, her legs falling open, both of them a mess, and he slipped out, sloppy, crawling over her body as he kicked his sweats the rest of the way off…

</p><p>He grabbed himself, impatient— pushed back in, with little finesse, knees moving up on the floor…  re-seated himself with a deep-throated <em>nhhh</em>, as she grabbed at his ass, rolling her own hips up to meet him…

</p><p>They’d done this before— fucked on the floor— and she knew what was coming: a whole lot of sore spots, bruises on her spine… and it wasn’t ideal, but she wasn’t gonna stop…

</p><p>He drove into her hard, palms pressed to the floor on either side of her, bullying her a little with his size, his strength, like he needed to prove it— that this was who he was, whom she was choosing: this brute of a man with a body full of scars, flesh welded to metal… a big, ugly mess, both inside and out…

</p><p>She hung on, letting him do it: letting him say his piece, as his hips snapped into her crudely, pushing her rough against the hard, dirty floor…

</p><p>And then it changed— his jaw softening, as he backed off from the power-play, the masculine need… the feral, mindless rut…

</p><p>He slowed down— turned tender— his shoulders rolling, as he rocked and pressed and sighed, one of his hands moving to her thigh, his face sweaty and serious above her, his eyes softly shut…

</p><p>“<em>Bucky</em>,” she whispered, dizzy from the display— how much he was letting her see: the anger and the tenderness alike…

</p><p>He was too far away— lost in a dream somewhere, his eyes still shut— and she moved a hand to his face… wanting to bring him back…

</p><p>He responded to her touch: opened up and looked— and she held him there with her gaze, their eyes locked together as he rolled his hips slower, his mouth open, his jaw almost shaking as he felt her getting close, and she could feel him wanting to duck away, the intimacy too intense…

</p><p>“Don’t look away,” she gasped, as she began to clench around him… “Don’t look away…”

</p><p>He didn’t: didn’t look away, when she shivered up and broke, her mouth falling open as she squeezed and shook around him, staring right into his heart through his pretty blue eyes, all cracked-open and raw…

</p><p>She tried to say it again: <em>I love you</em>— but she couldn’t even speak: couldn’t make a sound, as she fell from the trembling crest…

</p><p>She swore he could hear it anyway— that he read it on her face, as she quivered again around him— and then he followed her with a shivery little sigh, his head dipping down as he tensed up and shuddered… 
</p><p>…</p><p>He stayed there, panting— pressed up so far inside that his balls were flush against her— and then he sagged and slipped back, letting out a breath… moved his leg over her thigh, so he could tip over onto his back, landing beside her on the floor.

</p><p>She wanted to scoot over— to cuddle him, stay wrapped up warm in his skin. Wished they could move to the bed, but knew that he’d never agree to it: not when they were both so tired…

</p><p>“You okay?” he said, when she shifted uncomfortably and lay back, giving up on any attempt to snuggle.

</p><p>“Yeah.  Just… it sucks here, on the floor…”

</p><p>They lay there for a few more seconds, bringing their breathing back down… and then he sat up shakily…

</p><p>“Come on,” he said.  He stood and kicked the sweatpants aside… helped her stand, and then reached down to grab her T-shirt when she cupped a hand between her legs.  Offered her the shirt, which she used to wipe up the mess that was leaking out of her.  She dropped it back onto the floor when she was done, and then he walked her over to the couch, his hand on her hip.  There was a folded-up blanket lying over the back, and he grabbed it, opening it up to spread over them as they lay down, stretching themselves out, her body draped half over him, skin-to-skin.

</p><p>“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he said, as she nuzzled in close, her head resting against his chest.

</p><p>“I won’t.”  

</p><p>They drifted for a while, dangerous… both of them knowing they could so easily pass out…

</p><p>And then, after a while, she said it— softly, needing to know:  

</p><p>“Why’d you push me away?” 

</p><p>He didn’t answer at first.  She could tell he was thinking— working it out— and she gave him the space to do it, gently stroking the hair on his chest, resisting the urge to prompt him…

</p><p>“I got scared,” he said, finally.

</p><p>“Of what?”

</p><p>He didn’t reply.  Shifted his body a little— moved his metal arm— and she could hear it whir and settle, as he adjusted it around her.  

</p><p>When he finally spoke, it wasn’t an answer. “It kills me,” he said, instead, his voice quiet. “Knowin’ you thought that… that I didn’t care.”

</p><p>Her hand was still moving on his chest— back and forth… back and forth— her eyes watching the movement.  She didn’t know what to say.  She didn’t want him to hurt.  Ever.  But protecting him from the truth: that he’d hurt her too— hurt both of them, with his silence… with his fear of opening up— wouldn’t do them any favors.  

</p><p>Maybe he had to hurt a little… for both their sakes.  So they could come through this fire— find another way… 

</p><p>“I wanna make this work,” he said. “But I don’t—” 

</p><p>She waited, to see if he was going to finish, but he seemed to be stuck: either not knowing what to say, or how to say it.

</p><p>“That’s all I want,” she said, finally.  She slid her knee up a bit, curving her thigh a little more around him.  “I mean, obviously I want more.”  She sighed, her hand still caressing him.  “I want you to be able to stay here… to be with me.  <em>Really</em> be with me.  I want you in my bed, or me in yours.”

</p><p>She paused, thinking it over— choosing the right words.  Turned her face up so she could see him, when she turned in his arms to say it.  He was staring off into space, his flesh arm propped behind his head like a pillow. 

</p><p>“But if that can’t happen,” she said. “I mean… it’s not a deal-breaker for me, okay?  But we can’t go back to how it was.  You gotta talk to me.  You gotta—”

</p><p>She could feel he was breathing more shallowly— some tension there in his body, from the mess of his worried thoughts. 

</p><p>“You okay?” she said.  “I don’t want to pressure you, or—”

</p><p>“There might be…”  He was still looking away, his eyes staring off into nothing. “There’s maybe some things we can do,” he said.  “But—”

</p><p>“What things,” she said.

</p><p>“I been talkin’ to my therapist,” he said.  “He— I mean, I don’t wanna give you any kinda false hope, but—”

</p><p>“But what,” she said.

</p><p>“He gave me some names,” he said.  “Some specialists.  I guess they work with… you know.  People like me. Cops. Soldiers.” He looked down at her again. “They, uh… they work with the families, too…”

</p><p>She felt it like a burning inside… like something had broken open and spilled, hot, inside her veins… not a sense of fear, but… an intensity.  She’d felt it down in medical, too, when that nurse had used the same word:  <em>family</em>. 

</p><p>“Would you maybe…”  He was looking at her now, but he was having trouble saying it, whatever it was.  “You think you could maybe see to—” 

</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” she said, not needing him to finish.  “I’ll do it.”

</p><p>“It— it ain’t gonna be easy,” he said.  “And no guarantees it’ll even work— any of it.”

</p><p>“I know that,” she said.

</p><p>He sighed then, a little, as he pulled his arm back down from behind his head, reclining more into the arm of the couch, jostling her along with his movement.

</p><p>“You don’t even know how bad it can get,” he said.

</p><p><em>Because you’ve never told me</em>, she wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut.

</p><p>She rearranged herself on top of him, her boobs pressed into his chest, her legs slotted between each of his.  He was all sweaty under the blanket, their stomachs sliding together, and she shoved the blanket down halfway, baring them to their hips.

</p><p>His flesh hand traveled down to feel her… stroked the soft skin of her back; his finger found the little dimple at the top of her crack, and he circled it, making her smile…

</p><p>“I wanna try,” she said.  And then she turned her face to look at him again— held his eyes as she repeated it— like she’d never said it to anyone else before; not like this: so soft, and yet so fierce.  “I <em>love</em> you.”  She broke a little then, as he stared back her… “So much…”

</p><p>His chest was rising and falling— hearing her, believing it— and his voice was soft but steady, his eyes unflinching:

</p><p>“I love you too, sweetheart.”

</p><p>His eyes fell shut as she oozed up to kiss him, his flesh arm curving around her body to hold her.  He sighed into it: the kiss so tender, it made her tear up a little…

</p><p>“We’re gonna do this,” she said, her knuckles stroking the scruff on his face when they broke apart to breathe. “We’re gonna work on this.  Okay?”

</p><p>“Okay,” he said, and he kissed her again, rolling them a little on the couch— and there was so much wrapped into that one tiny word: all of their suffering, their longing, their love… asking, accepting.  And maybe, most significantly, there was trust: as though finally, for the first time, in a <em>very</em> long time, he could see it: the possibility of a tomorrow where he could let go for a while… not hang on so tight to his fear…

</p><p>Maybe even feel a little bit safe…

</p><p>Maybe even… relax.

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She jerked awake at the same time he did— still tangled up together on the couch, the blanket now hanging off their legs, both of them hot and sweaty…

</p><p>“You’re okay,” she said, as she sat up a little, her heart pounding, as she searched his face.  “You’re okay— <em>Fuck</em>, I’m sorry; I fell asleep…”

</p><p>“We both did,” he said, and he sat up too, and then he looked around tiredly, rubbed at the back of his neck… yawned. 

</p><p>She let out the breath she’d been holding: he was fine…

</p><p>“I better go,” he said.

</p><p>“Okay.” 

</p><p>She leaned down to grab up the blanket, while he pushed himself up from the couch.  Watched him walk naked back to the entryway, to the abandoned pile of clothes.

</p><p>She wrapped herself up in the blanket and shuffled over to watch him dress— leaned against the wide doorway to the livingroom, as he pulled his sweatpants back on.  

</p><p>“You wanna come over in the morning?” she said.  “Have coffee or something?”  And then, “God, that was the worst part about that place: <em>no coffee</em>.  Can you imagine?”

</p><p>He straightened up— pulled his undershirt over his head; threaded his arms into the sleeves, and tugged it down past his abs.  “Thought you said you almost died,” he said, with a little humor in his voice, to match hers.  “That sounds worse.”

</p><p>“Yeah, well, I would’ve <em>wanted</em> to die, if I’d been there another day without any coffee…”

</p><p>“Jokin’ aside,” he said then, as he came over to join her by the wall.  “You still gonna tell me the rest of it?” He wrapped his arms around her, blanket and all.

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, looking up him.  And then she yawned herself, big and long— talking through it: “Tomorrow…”

</p><p>He kissed her soft on the forehead, his hand on the back of her head— and then he released her… turned and headed for the door.  Stepped backwards for a second to grin at her: “I’ll bring you one of those big ones. One o’ your atrocities…”

</p><p>She smiled back at him, her eyes soft.  He always teased her about her choice of coffee beverage.  <em>That ain’t coffee</em>, he’d say, as he’d sip at his own modest cup of plain, black, blah.  <em>That’s a whole dessert course</em>.

</p><p>“So?” he said.  “Whattya say?”

</p><p>“To you bringing me an extra-large iced caramel macchiato with extra whip in the morning?”  

</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, and then he rubbed the back of his neck again.  “Maybe I better write that down…”  

</p><p>“I’ll text it to you,” she said.

</p><p>“And then we sit down here, and you tell me the story.  I got all day; don’t need to go nowhere.”

</p><p>“Will there be more bagels included in this exchange?” she said, trailing him to the door, the blanket dragging on the floor. "Or donuts, mayhap?"

</p><p>“Sweetheart, I’ll bring you anything you want,” he said, as he cracked the door open to go.

</p><p>She raised up on her tippy-toes to kiss him— slowly: once on the mouth, once on his chin— and then lowered herself back down and smiled.

</p><p>“You got yourself a deal.”

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The End.</p><p>Thanks for reading my story.  ❤︎</p><p> </p><p> </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>“Holy <em>shit!</em>”

</p><p>“What is it?” said Bucky.  He’d just finished twirling a huge hank of spaghetti around his fork, the tips of the tines spinning in the bowl of his spoon, but he set both pieces of silverware down to lean over and look at Darcy’s phone.

</p><p>They were sitting in the cafeteria, the room busy with the bustle of the late-lunch crowd— the sound of dozens of conversations mingling into a noisy rumble around them, the air heavy with the smell of garlic and oregano: spaghetti and meatballs, the Thursday special.  Bucky and Sam had had two servings each already, and now Bucky was working on his third.

</p><p>Sam and Natasha both had their faces in their phones, on the other side of the institutional table— hadn’t even looked up at Darcy’s words. They were used to her frequent outbursts; left it to Bucky to see whether his girlfriend was having an actual issue with something. 

</p><p>“It’s the Converse people,” she said, as she set down her club sandwich.  She licked a blob of mayo off her finger, wiped her hand on a paper napkin, and then used her fingertips to zoom in on the email that was up on her screen. “They, uh…I think they want me.”

</p><p>“Want you,” repeated Bucky.

</p><p>“For like, a campaign or something.”

</p><p>“As the Converse Girl?” said Nat, finally looking up from her own device.

</p><p>“I guess,” said Darcy.  “Sounds like it.”

</p><p>In the weeks since she’d reappeared on the streets of Manhattan, the footage of Doctor Strange and Wong stepping out of their portals by the bagel shop had been posted, shared, and manipulated online countless times.  But the magic users weren’t the part of the footage that’d gone viral; that honor went to Darcy, outfitted in her weird medieval travel clothes, full of exhausted fury, bellowing up to the sky:  <em>You owe me a pair of Converse, motherfucker!</em> 

</p><p>Darcy had become a meme.

</p><p>As far as the Internet was concerned, she wasn’t Darcy Ann Lewis— Stark Industries employee; personal assistant to Jane Foster, the noted astrophysicist; and significant other to one James Buchanan Barnes, the former Winter Soldier.

</p><p>She was Converse Girl.  

</p><p>And now, apparently, the people over at Converse were hoping to capitalize on her sudden celebrity.

</p><p>“They want you to do a commercial?” said Bucky. 

</p><p>“It sounds like it?” she said, passing him the phone, so he could read it.  “Should I call a lawyer, or…”

</p><p>“I can ask Pepper to give you some names,” said Nat.  “From when Tony did that watch thing last year…”

</p><p>“Oh God, that ad was <em>everywhere</em>,” said Darcy.  “I couldn’t turn a corner without seeing Tony’s face, telling me that I too should be a rich white entrepreneur with an ostentatious wristwatch…”

</p><p>“He donated all the money to charity,” said Nat.

</p><p>“Really?” said Darcy.  “Huh.”

</p><p>“You really wanna help some company sell shoes?” said Bucky, handing her phone back.

</p><p>“I dunno,” said Darcy.  “Doesn’t hurt to go talk to them, right?  Maybe I’ll get Converse for life out of it.  That alone would be worth it…”

</p><p>“How come I ain’t got a shoe deal yet,” grumbled Sam.  

</p><p>“You were offered one,” said Natasha, her face making little dimples as she looked over at him, amused.  “You turned it down, remember?”

</p><p>“Well, <em>yeah</em>,” he said.  “From <em>those</em> guys.  Assholes and their overseas sweatshops…”

</p><p>“Shit, I wonder if Converse…”  Darcy tapped on her phone, doing a quick Google search.  “Aw <em>man</em>,” she said.  “What the hell?  They haven’t been made domestically since 2001, when the company went bankrupt. They were bought out by—”

</p><p>She was cut off when a man-sized, spinning, circular portal— fiery-orange and throwing off sparks— opened up in the middle of the cafeteria, causing people all around to scramble out of the way, knocking over chairs…

</p><p>Nat and Sam and Bucky were on their feet instantly, ready to defend, and then lowered their fists when they saw who came through.

</p><p>It was Wong— alone, this time.  He stepped through and looked around, as the portal dissolved behind him.  He was dressed head-to-toe in black linen, and was holding something in his hands: what looked like a bundle of heavy, parchment-colored cloth, wrapped around a narrow item about a foot in length, tied together with leather string. 

</p><p>“Darcy Lewis,” he said, locking eyes on her as she pushed back her chair and stood up.

</p><p>“Mr. Wong,” she said cooly, as she crossed her arms over her chest.

</p><p>“Just <em>Wong</em>,” he said, correcting her. 

</p><p>“Oh, like Bono?” she said, sarcastically.

</p><p>“Beyoncé, if you must,” he said, and then he held out the rolled bundle to her.  “This came for you.”

</p><p>“What is it?” said Bucky suspiciously, but he didn’t stop Darcy from stepping forward to accept it.  There was something solid inside…

</p><p>“Oh, wow…” she breathed, as she untied the strings, and then unwrapped it carefully to reveal a pristine, shiny-bright, handcrafted silver dagger.  

</p><p>She looked up at Wong quickly: the man was already turning to leave.  “Can I— if I want to send something back—”

</p><p>“Strange told me to tell you,” he said, as he deftly opened a new portal. “He’s not FedEx.”

</p><p>“But—”

</p><p>He was already gone by the time she yelled it— just like last time, her words landing on nobody, the portal having already vanished back into nothing:  “<em>But I’m not even the one who</em>—”  She growled in frustration and then shouted it out: “<em>God! Dick!</em>”

</p><p>“Don’t shoot the messenger,” said Natasha, smirking, as the three superheroes surrounded her, to get a better look at the weapon.

</p><p>“I didn’t mean Wong,” said Darcy.  “I meant the other one— Strange.  He needs to get over himself…”

</p><p>Sam whistled in appreciation as she held up the dagger, so they could see it. The weapon was a foot in length, maybe slightly more— the blade itself at least seven inches long.  The handle had a double guard, with curved, pointy-ended quillons.  The grip was overlaid with a deeply-burnished wood, mahogany-colored, and the pommel was lined with some kind of tiny, delicately-shimmering diamond-like gems.

</p><p>She ran her fingertip lightly against the edge of the blade, and quickly pulled it back: it was razor-sharp.

</p><p>“There’s some kind of writing here,” said Bucky, who’d taken the oilcloth from her.  He turned back to the cafeteria table, so he could spread it out, pushing their lunch trays aside.  “Give us some room, willya?” he said to the people crowding around.

</p><p>The four of them bent over the cloth to see: as Bucky had said, there were a few black-lettered rows of some kind of writing on the cloth, but the alphabet was odd-looking: nothing Darcy recognized.

</p><p>“Looks a little like Russian,” said Bucky, pointing to a couple of the characters.  “Like this one here… or here.  But—”

</p><p>“Interesting,” said Nat, who’d nudged Sam out of the way, so that she could study the writing more closely. “It’s like a stylized form of Glagolitic.”

</p><p>“What’s that?” said Darcy.

</p><p>“Bucky’s right,” she said.  “It’s an ancient Slavic alphabet.  Shares a few graphemes with Russian.”

</p><p>“Can you read it?” pressed Darcy.

</p><p>“Sure,” said Natasha, shrugging, causing Sam to cross his arms across his chest with a smirk— his girl was something else…

</p><p>“What’s it say?” said Bucky.

</p><p>Nat leaned over the cloth again, her finger hovering over each set of letters as she read across…

</p><p>“Effective…,” she said, and then paused as she worked out the rest.  “Effective against monsters.  That make sense?”

</p><p>“Completely,” said Darcy, smiling as she turned the dagger over in her hands, admiring it.

</p><p>“S’not a threat, is it?” said Bucky. “Do we need to—”

</p><p>“No, no,” said Darcy.  “Remember the part I told you about in the swamp?  With the acid-blob things?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” said Bucky, and then he nodded, remembering:  “Right: silver…”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said. “And remember how I said I couldn’t even lift the fucking sword?  I was useless.  I mean, not that I would’ve used a dagger on one of those things, but… ”  She let out a little smile, almost shy.  “Anyway, he said a dagger would suit me better, so… I guess he really meant it.”

</p><p>“Is that all?” said Bucky, looking at Nat again.  “The end of the message?” 

</p><p>“No,” she said.  “Right here, it says, ‘<em>thank you</em>’, and then… hm.”

</p><p>“What,” said Darcy.

</p><p>“Not sure about this word, here,” said Nat.  “Maybe it’s a proper noun.  Sounds like… <em>Yas</em>… <em>Yáskr?</em>”

</p><p>“Jaskier?” said Darcy, grinning.

</p><p>“Yeah, that works,” said Nat, and then she smiled as well.  “The best translation would be ‘<em>Jaskier says ‘hi</em>.’”

</p><p>“Oh my God,” said Darcy, and she was tearing up a little…

</p><p>Nat straightened up from the table and looked at the dagger.  “It’s a beautiful blade,” she said.  “May I?”

</p><p>“Sure,” said Darcy, handing it over, and she watched as Natasha moved it around nimbly in her hand, and then passed it to her left, and then back again…

</p><p>“Perfectly balanced,” she said.  She gave it back to Darcy, and then raised an eyebrow to Bucky appraisingly. “You should train her.”

</p><p>“Oh my God, that would be awesome,” said Darcy, trying— and failing— to twirl the blade around in her hand the way Natasha had.  “You got room in your class for one more?”

</p><p>“I don’t know,” he said, shifting his feet.  “It’s, uh… it’s kinda intense.  Lotta hand-to-hand, people getting’ thrown around on the mats.  Not sure I could handle it.”

</p><p>“What, my total incompetence?” she said.  “That’s the point of taking the class, dumbass.”

</p><p>“No,” he said.  “It ain’t that.  It’s more… the idea of seein’ some guy throw you down, tackle you.  Don’t know if—”

</p><p>“Oh please,” said Natasha, rolling her eyes.  “Pair her off with another woman to start.  Like Castillo; she’s tiny.”   And then, when he still looked doubtful, Natasha pushed him in the chest.  “Do it.  Train her.”

</p><p>“You really serious?” said Bucky then, looking down at Darcy.  “You wanna take my class?”

</p><p>“Absolutely,” said Darcy, as she watched her own hand play with the dagger, almost fumbling it.  “This thing isn’t just for decoration.  And I wouldn’t feel right owning a piece like this, without knowing how to use it properly.”

</p><p>“Amen,” said Natasha.

</p><p>“Well, in that case…”

</p><p>“Yay!” said Darcy, practically squealing, and then she did a half-assed lunge-jab to the side…

</p><p>“Hey, watch it with that thing,” said Sam, stepping backward. 

</p><p>“You are ridiculously easy to please,” said Bucky, grinning at Darcy’s open delight.

</p><p>“I am when you’re the one doing the pleasing,” she teased.  She set the dagger down on the table so that she could free her hands, and then she stepped into his body, grabbing at his hips through his sweatpants as she beamed up at him.

</p><p>Bucky’s hand moved down to her ass, giving it a little squeeze through her stretch-jeans as he leaned down to give her a kiss on the lips.  “Best job in the world,” he murmured.

</p><p>“You guys are nauseating,” said Nat, rolling her eyes.  She tilted her head to Sam. “You ready to go?”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em>Brooklyn</em><br/>
<em>The following year</em>…

</p><p>Steve Rogers was walking slowly down the line of the pretty, custom-built bookshelves that lined one entire wall of the modest livingroom, taking in the eclectic collection of items— pictures, pottery, books, knick-knacks— that represented the blending together of two lives: one of them his best friend, and the other, the bright and shining spirit who’d claimed his friend’s heart…

</p><p>He paused, bending in to take a closer look at a small framed photo of two men and a strikingly-beautiful woman, all in unusual, dramatic-looking clothing, almost like costumes for some Shakespeare production.  A golden coin lay on the shelf, next to the base of the picture frame.  He’d been to Darcy’s old place plenty of times over the past year, but he’d never seen this particular photo before.  She’d likely gotten it made up for the new apartment…

</p><p>Bucky reappeared by his side with two fresh bottles of beer— handed one over to Steve. 

</p><p>“Thanks,” he said, as he took the offered bottle.  Took a sip of it and swallowed, and then nodded to the picture, dropping his voice a little. “That the guy?  The, uh… the one with the long hair?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” said Bucky.

</p><p>“Huh,” said Steve, and then he took a longer drink of his beer.

</p><p>“Huh, what,” said Bucky. 

</p><p>“I mean,” started Steve.  He took another glance at the photo, and then said, still keeping his voice down, “It don’t bother you, havin’…”   He trailed off.

</p><p>“Havin’ him on our shelf?” said Bucky, finishing the thought for him. “Nah.  Don’t bother me none.”

</p><p>Steve gave him a knowing look, and Bucky’s face broke into a soft smile as he nodded his head, conceding.  “Yeah, okay; fine— guy’s pretty good-lookin’, I’ll give you that.”  

</p><p>He walked over to the seating area, dropping into one of the big, overstuffed chairs.  Steve followed him, taking a spot on the couch.

</p><p>“Christ, Steve,” Bucky was saying.  “I mean…” He shook his head and set his beer down on the coffee table.  “You wanna know the truth of it, I’m grateful to him.  Both of ‘em.  Takin’ care of my girl, when she was in trouble.  Saved her life— couple of times.  Probably wouldn’t’ve made it home, if…”

</p><p>He turned his head to look down the hallway— could hear Darcy coming back through the apartment with Nat, having finished giving the other woman the grand tour.  He lowered his own voice to finish his thought.

</p><p>“Tell you what,” he said. “Geralt of Rivia ever shows up at our door, I’ll be the first one to pull out a chair.”  He leaned forward to grab his beer again.  “Give the guy a beer.”

</p><p>“Already got one, thanks,” said Sam, catching the tail-end of the sentence as he came up behind them.  He rested one hand on the back of the couch, nodding as he looked around the livingroom.  “Quite the place you got here, Barnes.  Givin’ me ideas…”

</p><p>“Don’t talk to me about it,” said Bucky, with a grin. “I ain’t got any eye for decoratin’. This is all Darcy.”

</p><p>“You see the tub?” said Natasha, as she and Darcy stepped into the room.

</p><p>“What,” said Sam.  “You got some kind of super-spa or somethin’?”

</p><p>“Come look,” said Nat, bumping him with her hip, and then she giggled as Sam smacked her playfully on the ass when he followed her back down the hallway.

</p><p>“God, I’m so glad they got back together,” said Darcy, sighing happily as she watched them disappear down the hall.  “They’re too fuckin’ cute…”

</p><p>“Disgusting,” agreed Steve.

</p><p>“Speaking of disgusting,” said Darcy cheerfully, as she plopped down on the couch next to Steve. “When were you gonna tell me about Sharon Carter?  You coulda brought her along, you know.”

</p><p>“Aren’t Jane and Thor supposed to be here?” said Steve, and then he hid his face behind the mouth of his beer bottle, taking a long drink as he averted his eyes.

</p><p>“They’re running late,” said Darcy, her eyes never leaving his face.  “Your feeble attempts to avoid my interrogation are doomed to fail,” she added, her face somehow both gleeful and serious.  “Come on, spill.”

</p><p>Steve lowered his beer bottle and then looked over to Bucky with open exasperation. 

</p><p>Bucky leaned back in his chair, plucking at his shirt as he broke into a sassy grin— thoroughly enjoying himself.  “Don’t look at me, punk,” he said.  “She figured it out on her own…”

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“That was nice,” said Darcy, her words almost slurred— all blissed out, as she relaxed back into Bucky’s warm, wet chest, his meaty thighs caging her hips under the water in their gigantic, custom-built barrel-style tub. 

</p><p>“Yeah, it was,” said Bucky. “So’s this,” he added softly. His hand came up to pull her wet hair all to one side, and then he ran the sea sponge over her left shoulder, leaning down to kiss her dewy skin in its wake…

</p><p>They’d been living at the new place for a week already, but it was only now— after all the flurry of unpacking and getting settled in; a full, busy week at work for both of them; and then tonight, a good five hours of entertaining their closest friends in their new home— that they finally had a chance to slow down and truly relax. They'd left the dirty dishes piled in the kitchen, turned off most of the lights, stripped off their clothes, and settled in for a nice long soak in the warm, lightly-scented water, a couple of bottles of beer off to the side on a wooden bench…

</p><p>“Told you,” she said.  “Told you we just needed the right tub.”  And then she rolled herself over in his arms and gave him a long, languid kiss, their lips melting together in the luscious steamy heat…

</p><p>“Ain’t never doubtin’ your genius again,” he said.  He squished the water out of the sea-sponge, dropped it over the edge, onto the floor, and wrapped her up in his arms…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“You got your monitor?” she said, and then stifled a big yawn as she plugged her phone in.  “Fuck, I’m beat.”

</p><p>“Got it,” said Bucky, as he slipped the little device onto his finger.  

</p><p>The finger monitor was a pricey little piece of electronics that measured his heart rate and blood-oxygen saturation continuously, and was able to communicate the data, in real-time, to devices that had the corresponding app installed; in this case, that meant Darcy’s phone.  

</p><p>Earlier that year, Bucky had participated in a thorough sleep study, the results of which had clearly demonstrated that his night terrors were preceded by a consistent pattern: first some period of a fluctuating heart-rate, followed by a sustained and sometimes extreme tachycardic event.  The finger monitor was set to alert them, in the case that it detected a pattern predictive of such an event:  Darcy’s phone had a specific alarm for such an alert, while Bucky’s monitor would vibrate, eventually waking him, interrupting the event before it reached such a point where he tended to become disoriented or violent.

</p><p>They’d done dozens of test-runs, back at both his old place, and hers, at the Tower— and so far, the system seemed to work.  If Darcy was woken by an alert, she’d get up and move to a secure location.  Lock herself in, and then wait for his okay, once he’d woken and taken stock of himself, with the assistance of a mental checklist designed by one of his therapists. 

</p><p>She was hoping that eventually he’d be comfortable with her staying in the room— that he’d trust the system to work as intended, as it’d done thus far.  For now, though, she was happy to do it like this: to do whatever he needed, to feel assured of her safety.  It allowed them to share a bed— and now, to live together: something she’d feared might never be possible.

</p><p>His daytime triggers were more complicated— less predictable, his responses more varied.  But they were working on those too…

</p><p>She yawned again— finished checking her texts and emails— and then set the phone down on the bedside table and rolled over to snuggle into him, thoroughly enjoying the comfort of his big, warm body in their new king-sized bed…

</p><p>She’d been planning on attacking him after that bath— had been loose and horny, in a dreamy, drowsy kind of way— but now that they were stretched out under the covers, she just wanted to drift off…  

</p><p>She nuzzled her face into his neck— kissed him once, and then shut her eyes— and within a few minutes, they were out…

</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She woke up on her side, facing away from him… aware that the night had passed, uneventfully— the room already growing bright, from the daylight burning in through the pale fabric shades.  

</p><p>She could feel his presence beside her in the bed— both of them lazy, warm, and well-rested.  She leaned over just enough to pick up her phone and check the time: nine-thirty.  They’d slept late…

</p><p>She dropped the phone back onto the table and pushed the covers down with her feet… slid over to him.  He was stretched out on his back, his lips gently parted, eyes still shut.  She oozed herself around him, claiming him with an arm and a leg…

</p><p>It was Sunday.  They both had the whole day off.  After a long week of moving in, and then the housewarming party, she was looking forward to doing nothing— all day long… with him…

</p><p>He stirred after a minute, and rolled onto his side, and she rolled over as well— letting him spoon her, as his big arms reached out to pull her in, like she was his teddy bear.  She could feel the hair on his chest brushing against her back… feel his hard-on bumping into her ass…

</p><p>His voice was soft in her ear, still half-asleep…

</p><p>“Coffee now?” he murmured, “or later.”

</p><p>“Mmmmm… later,” she said, her voice low, and she reached back to feel him, her knuckles brushing the hair at the base of his cock…

</p><p>He pulled away for a second— leaned back, stretching toward his bedside table, and she knew he was taking off his finger monitor… and then he was back, embracing her again— pulling her closer, into the warm, sweaty smell of his body.

</p><p>He made a soft, happy sound when she put her fingers back on him, his legs moving to tangle more with hers, as she stroked him slowly…

</p><p>His flesh hand reached around— traveled down her belly to her pubic hair, his fingers slipping in between...

</p><p>Once she was ready, he lifted her leg— spread her out enough to slip in from behind— and then they sighed together, as he fucked her slow and easy…

</p><p>It was slow and easy when she came, too: a quiet shiver— just seconds after him— and then he moved his fingers away and slipped out, so he could roll her onto her back and kiss her.

</p><p>“Mornin’, sunshine.”

</p><p>His eyes made little crinkles when he smiled down at her, and then he rolled onto his back again with a happy sigh, his arm coming around to keep her close.

</p><p>“You got any plans?” she said, her hand stroking his chest.  “For today, I mean?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” he said.  “Already doin’ it.”

</p><p>She smiled, nuzzling in a little closer. “It’s your turn to make coffee.”

</p><p>“God, you’re such a fuckin’ junky,” he said, his chest shaking a little as he chuckled.  “You got a problem with this?  Think you can handle lettin’ a man just lie here peaceful with his girl?”

</p><p>“Yeah,” she said, smiling into his chest. “I can handle it.”

</p><p>“Good,” he said, and he kissed her forehead, and then lay back again, sighing contentedly. 

</p><p>“For ten minutes, maybe,” she said, as soon as he was settled— unable to help herself, loving to fuck with him.  “Fifteen, tops.”  She smiled even wider when he began to quietly laugh…

</p><p>His body stilled again, and then it was quiet for a while— he was dozing again, maybe— and then she said, “Bucky?”

</p><p>“Yeah, sweetheart?”

</p><p>“I love you.”

</p><p>His chest rose and fell, and when he spoke, the sound of his voice was like the music her heart sought, slipping her rhythm into his song, their souls swaying together…

</p><p>“Sweetheart,” he said, “there ain’t the right words for how I feel about you.  So ‘<em>I love you</em>’  s’gonna have to do, ’til I come up with somethin’ bigger.  Somethin’ I can say that’s… worthy of the feelin’.”

</p><p>His skin was warm and glowing in the soft morning light, beams of it filtering in… moving over their bodies, luminous… like something holy— and for a moment, she felt a kind of consecration: like that big burning star, out in the sky above, was shining down on them in approval— giving them its energy, so they could live and burn with it... 

</p><p>Everyone, everywhere— combusting... burning to find love…

</p><p>"Baby," she whispered, with all the candor of the light, her heart so full of feeling that it could only breathe truth: “You just did.”

</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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